


I'm Sorry It Didn't Work Out

by largefella



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Bad Ending, F/M, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largefella/pseuds/largefella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger was sitting in Mike’s hospital bed, wearing Mike’s face, smiling Mike’s smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a prompt from the Suits kinkmeme on LJ, continued on AO3.  
> Edit 8/3/17:  
> -Fixed some continuity errors and other little mistakes.  
> -Title and summary were changed, added some tags, but not much else was fiddled with.  
> I really appreciate all the comments and kudos. Thanks again for taking the time to read! :)

He had managed to grab a cup of watered-down coffee before coming into work.

How many consecutive mornings did today make it now? Three, maybe four, where he hadn't eaten more than a grapefruit after dragging his sleep-paralyzed body out of bed or wherever it was he decided to drop for the night.

Mike had gotten into the habit of assuring himself that he was doing all of this by choice. He wasn't staying up at obscene hours of the night because _Harvey_ told him to. He wasn't looking over endless briefs and bylaws because _Harvey_ wanted to limit the odds of them being blindsided. It wasn't on _Harvey's_ order that he put in the hours to keep their exits covered and blood out of the water.

He was losing sleep and his hold over his general sense of well-being because he needed to. It was simply what it took to survive a high-stakes world of multi-million dollar handshakes, celebrities on speed dial, and suits that were worth offensive amounts of money.

He could meet the challenges, he was ready. Perfectly willing.

He could only kid himself for so long at this point, though. It became clear that Harvey had a monopoly on his time.

Whether Mike liked it or not, the world—this world he had stumbled into at least—revolved around Harvey Specter. And, in turn, so did his. Harvey probably would have liked to hear it.

Forty-five minutes until his first break for the day. A quick glance at his watch and he counted another minute past. He would have to grab something quick to wolf down for brunch, like a hot dog. He could already smell it; roasting pork, sweet onions and tomatoes and a dollop of mustard.

His eyes felt gritty and he gave his left a hard rub. He squinted past the wateriness as Donna's desk came into view.

“Morning Donna. Harvey available? I've got some things for him.”

Needing Donna's permission before speaking to Harvey was, Mike found, a necessary step in their developing relationship. But in his humble opinion his “quarantine” had long passed, allowing him the much coveted privilege of being able to come and go when he pleased—as much as Harvey would allow, of course. It was often enough. These days he seemed to get to Harvey's office without much thought.

It was the sight of Harvey on the phone that made him ask this time. Past experience had taught him this was a definite no-go. But skating on a grand total of five hours of sleep to show for the past three and a half days and Mike considered barging in and probably being okay with the fallout. One look at Donna, however, and he nervously quelled the thought.

“Give him a second,” Donna replied.

She briefly glanced up at him from her computer.

“Sleeping in your suits again?”

“Actually that's a funny story—”

“Oh, I'm sure."

Mike took her retort in stride and glanced at his watch again—forty minutes. Hot dog or a bagel?

Despite being watered down, the coffee made him jittery. He paced around, one hand under his armpit the other clutching his manila folder. He continued this until Donna shot him a withering look and then settled for standing still, putting some distance between Donna's desk and himself.

Harvey was still on the phone when Mike could no longer fight the urge to take another look at his watch—twenty-nine minutes.

Through the glass wall, Mike could see Harvey at his desk. He strained a little to get a better look. Harvey's fingers loosely gripped his phone, as if committing to the conversation were taking tremendous physical effort. He opened and closed his mouth often, looking as though he couldn't get a word in edgewise.

All things considered, Mike felt he was witnessing a rare event; Harvey not in control.

He wagered that, whoever it was, they had to be of some importance. Not that Harvey had ever shied away from challenging authority before; he often relished the opportunity. But this was different. Mike had yet to see Harvey grasping for words. Before now, he had deemed that impossible. Harvey always had something to say.

Interested, he watched as Harvey's other hand came up to his forehead. Ex-girlfriend? Mother? Man, what was she like? Harvey had once mentioned a brother hadn't he?

Whatever direction the conversation was now starting to go, it seemed Harvey wanted no part of it. He abruptly took the phone from his ear and slammed it back down on its base. The violence of the action momentarily alarmed Mike. The caller had clearly gotten under Harvey's skin, which was of further interest. There must of been few, if any, things that really got to Harvey. Mike reckoned he'd better make their meeting quick and not risk being on the receiving end of misdirected anger.

He cleared his throat as he passed the threshold, seeing that Harvey had lowered his hand to rest it over his eyes.

“The Hollander case,” Mike began as he placed the folder—a subpoena that had taken hours to get a judge to sign—on Harvey's desk.

“I'm almost done composing our guy's opening brief. I may need a pair of new eyes to go over it though.”

When he didn't hear a response from Harvey, he put out a feeler.

"Hey, everything alright Harvey? I mean it wasn't like I was spying or anything, your office is see-through, but I could've sworn you just got a call from what I can only describe might have been your doppelganger in telemarketing. What was up with that?”

Harvey let his hand drop. His mouth worked in an agitated way that Mike was familiar with and he took up the folder.

"Let me know when you have the brief ready, not when you 'almost' have it."

It had been clear that Harvey wasn't going to be in the mood to talk but Mike, admittedly, hadn't been able to help himself. Though he knew this, the fact that Harvey was acting like Mike's inquiry was a monumental nuisance struck Mike in a very unpleasant way. Harvey had proven to be very protective of his secrets, but Mike had thought that they had worked past that by now, thought he had earned a little bit of trust by now.

Heck, their whole working relationship was predicated on one big secret threatening to blow at any moment; a secret that Mike caught himself often forgetting about in the rush of court cases and paperwork. The skin on the back of his neck prickled at the thought, at the recollection of the constant danger he, Harvey, and Donna lived in.

“Something else Mike?” Harvey murmured as he absently flipped through the folder's contents.

“Uh, no,” Mike quickly replied. He awkwardly shifted on the spot and then saw himself out.

Mike didn't expect Harvey to share every phone conversation he ever made with him but he felt this particular one deserved some clarification. The word "blackmail" darted through his thoughts and unease curled in his chest. He was sure Harvey would tell him if it turned into a problem.

Mike was tempted to speak with Donna about the matter but, reaching her, he found her tucking her phone between her shoulder and ear. Her eyes were downcast as she took down something on a clipboard.

Feeling thoroughly dismissed by both Harvey and Donna, Mike made his way back to the bull pen.

* * *

“Oh come on, you can't be serious. _It's a Wonderful Life?_ ”

Rachel pursed her lips, giving it some thought.

“Familiar. Who was in it?”

“James Stewart? Ring any bells? No?—Uh yeah, yeah. I'm with Pearson Hardman. I'm composing a summary for one of my cases and I was told—yes. Okay, I'll hold.”

Mike covered the mouth-piece of the phone. "Okay. _Rear Window_? It's a classic.”

“Hitchcock right? I think I'm on board now,” Rachel joked and lifted a guarded brow when Mike made a face and directed a pen at her.

“Okay yeah, but don't say you've only seen that and _Psycho_. We'll be right back to square one. Hello?—Yes, I'm still here. I was wondering...I was just put on hold I can't—”

Mike held back an insult he felt dancing on his tongue and Rachel shot him an apologetic look. She mouthed "lunch" and Mike nodded eagerly just as someone else came over the line.

“I'd just like to sequester some information about your company's statements regarding your past lawsuits.”

Mike watched Rachel's hips attentively as she stepped away from his cubicle.

“No—no. I'm not going anywhere. Look, if you'd like me to file a complaint—,” a pause, then, “Harvey Specter. That's right. With an 'H', you know, as in Harvey Specter. Yes, tomorrow morning should be fine, thank you.”

He planted the phone back down and gave himself a mental high five for a job well-done. What a helluva runaround that had been. And he had once thought his phone company was the master of that department. Recently, Harvey's name had turned out to be a marvelous trump card. It just went to show how far the other man's influence stretched. It also took some of the load off of Mike's back, though he had to remember to use it sparingly.

He swiveled around in his chair and jumped when Harvey suddenly materialized in front of his cubicle.

He let out a sound of surprise and then coughed to unsuccessfully cover it up. He shuffled some papers and moved his stapler a little to the left, trying to make as if Harvey's sudden appearance hadn't scared the shit out of him.

“Hey Harvey. What can I do for you?"

“Glad to know you're using my name for good,” Harvey ridiculed.

The corner of Harvey's lip twitched when Mike straightened and shook his head as though trying to deny the remark.

“Relax bright-eyes. So? Where are we on Sally's case?”

“Mostly stonewalled,” Mike admitted truthfully and thought that Harvey should have used the term “we” lightly because he hadn't seen head or tail of the man since Harvey had thrown the pro bono case on his lap about five days ago. It was worrying to him that that was starting to become a “thing”. He really, really didn't want it to be a “thing”.

“Well, press till it—”

“—hurts. Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Mike finished. He fought hard to resist the urge to return Harvey's smug smile.

“Harvey,” Mike began just as Harvey seemed ready to turn away.

“What happened last week?”

It was a stretch bringing it back up after so much time had passed. Harvey apparently seemed content to pretend like nothing had happened—it hadn't been so easy for Mike.

“Well, if you insist on being so vague, it's going to take some time to recount everything. Couple of the girl's names escape me.”

“Hey. You know what I mean. The angry phone call? What was that about?”

Harvey shot a glance to the side and rested a hand on Mike's cubicle. He pressed close and Mike got a whiff of coriander.

“Nothing Mike. It was an old client who never got the message. I made it clear that I wasn't going to speak to him again, like the last time I did. It's been dealt with.”

Harvey cocked his head to the side. “And, you know, I can take care of myself. Is there something you think is happening that I can't handle?”

“That isn't—,” Mike began earnestly but Harvey had already turned from him, hand in pocket and swagger switched on.

Mike settled back in his chair with a sigh and watched Harvey's retreating back.

The exchange had pretty much gone like how he had planned it would in his head. Mike was never really one for repeating pointless ventures but he found this particular instance to needle him in an unusual way. And Harvey's nonchalant answer had only spurred him on. Why hadn't Harvey simply screened the call then? Why had he spent fifteen minutes, maybe even longer, on the phone with someone he didn't want to talk to? This was simply not something that Harvey did. The call had meant more than Harvey was letting on—this much was obvious to Mike.

Mike set his teeth to his thumb and slouched over his desk.

* * *

Lunch was at a classy little place down the street that nearly put a hole through his wallet. But Mike considered that it was worth it as he watched Rachel enjoy herself over the savory dishes. He couldn't read anything on the menu and she deviously refused to help in choosing until he was forced to order something at random. A meat dish. It tasted like chicken and he preferred the guess to the potential truth. Rachel had pointed out chili and vinegar fertilized duck eggs as one of the listed appetizers for crying out loud.

“And he didn't tell you anything else?” Rachel questioned. Her eyes were focused on the oncoming traffic.

Mike didn't answer immediately because of the way the mid-day sun caught her brown hair, making a few strands golden, and how soft the curve of her jaw looked when she had her head had turned from him. Jesus, she really was beautiful.

“He did. Sort of—you know, in that Harvey Specter way. But I'm pretty sure he's keeping something from me.”

The walk sign flashed on and Rachel and he traversed the crosswalk accompanied by a bustling crowd. She was silent for a beat, her expression thoughtful.

“I'm sure being the best closer in New York has its down sides.” She weathered his raised eyebrow and unconvinced look.

“Really! He must find himself fending off crazies every once in a while.”

"What—what like the hot brunette in Vera Wang I saw join him in his Cabrio after work the other night? Yeah, I'm sure he's swimming in...'crazies'."

She laughed and leaned in towards him as they reached the end of the crosswalk. They bumped shoulders, giving him a whiff of the light scent she was wearing.

“Okay, really though. My advice? Let him deal with it on his own. He's let you manage your own stuff by yourself right? He trusted that you'd make the right choices and I think you should do the same for him.”

He had been expecting Rachel's answer. Truth be told, he had already come to the very same conclusion himself.

Talking with Rachel—and Mike refused to call it girl-talk since that would be a direct assault on his masculinity—had assuaged him somewhat. Harvey had proven himself more than capable of fixing problems—it was precisely the reason why the man had shot, unstoppable, through the ranks of Pearson Hardman. Mike understood that the only responsibility he had was to leave Harvey alone. He needed to let Harvey work out, on his own, whatever it was that he was going through. The pill was a bitter one to swallow but, thinking back, it was true that Harvey only intervened when Mike had exhausted every possible avenue.

He only hoped that Harvey would let him help, if the time ever came.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey anyone seen Greg?”

The general aim of his question, the neighboring cubicles and milling associates, proved fruitless. All were too busy, too laden with work, to spare a word. 

“That's funny you should mention him Mike. I've been looking for him too.” 

Mike felt the tickle of breath on the back of his neck and he turned to find Louis' sanguine smile.

“Question; do you always stand this close behind the other associates?”

“No, only you Mike,” Louis replied, his voice sugary and low.

“Okay. And I guess I'll pretend to not be as freaked out by that as I rightfully am.”

Louis continued eerily smiling and betrayed no indication that he was going to speak again any time soon. Mike's eyes roved everywhere except for the junior partner standing in front of him. Louis' close proximity gave him little maneuverability and he was effectively stuck between Gregory's cubicle and the other man. But this suffocating closeness didn't seem to bother Louis. He seemed content to continue to stand there in silence. Mike could never decide if Louis was creepy on purpose or if it came natural to him.

“So look, Louis, can I help you with anything else? It's just I've got this thing I've gotta do for Harvey."

Louis shrugged. He looked over Mike's shoulder at Gregory's cubicle.

“I just like to 'hang' with my associates every once in a while. Shoot the breeze. You know I love all of you right?”

Mike tried to get the word "love" out of his mind before he forever equated it with the image of Louis' sneer. He twitched his head to the side.

“Gregory hasn't shown up for work in about a week or so, so I'm in the same boat as you Mike.”

The very first emotion that visited Mike was shock that seven days had blurred passed him without him knowing.

“Maybe he's sick?” Mike said and Louis shrugged again, his expression unchanged.

“Well, I dunno Mike.” Louis folded his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “See, but, I was hoping you could tell me, since you two are 'homies' and all.”

“Wow, you're going with that word? Look, we're not 'homies' Louis—,” Mike began, long-suffering, but Louis held up a hand. His smile (if one could really call it that) had vanished.

“Be that as it may, an absence for this long without any prior notice or explanation is inexcusable. If you do happen to see him, you can tell him to come back but only to collect his things, otherwise I'll have it all confiscated in the next seven to ten business days. At Pearson Hardman, we expect professionalism. You can't just _leave_ when you feel like it, take a _break_ when the work gets hard. He's only shown me a lack of what it takes to work here, so in turn I will be showing him the door.”

Mike held Louis' unwavering gaze, vaguely aware that the other associates' eyes were on the two of them.

“This is where you say 'yes sir'.”

Mike repressed his annoyance at the order. 

“Yes sir,” he answered briskly, jaw tight.

Satisfied, Louis finally took a step back and haughtily eyed the staring associates. Louis had intended for his words to be heard by all in the vicinity and had purposefully raised his voice as a result. Yet another Machiavellian tactic of his, no doubt, to ensure "productivity".

Mike watched Louis walk away—waiting until he had gone—and then leaned over Gregory's cubicle wall. He ignored the looks the other associates were shooting him.

On the desk were two neat stacks of documents, a few pencils, a calculator, and some law books. Examining the items, Mike found that he was shaken. Not by Louis himself but by Gregory's apparent disappearance. How could he have not noticed that Gregory had just up and left for a week? First year associates didn't get vacation time, Gregory would have known this. And Gregory of all people knew that Louis had a raging hardon for meting out his zero-tolerance policies.

There was something distinctly off about it. And it wasn't just a feeling; he found the notion that Gregory would simply not show up for work a lazy one. Gregory wouldn't have just called it quits, not after getting into one of the top law firms in the state, not if Mike knew Gregory as much as he thought he did.

The first and most obvious explanation to Mike was that an accident of some kind had happened and Gregory was incapable of contacting anyone at the firm. The second was that he had a family member who was ill or dying and, in the frenzy, he had no time or interest in call in. But even considering these plausible excuses, more questions arose. Even if Gregory was incapacitated, a doctor or a relative or police officer should have called the firm by now on his behalf.

A flash of curly, blond hair caught his eye.

“Hey! Harold. Just the guy I was looking for."

Harold seemed genuinely happy at the sudden attention. He gazed expectantly at Mike with watery blue eyes. Mike often wondered how it was that Harold had managed to last as long as he had at Pearson Hardman, looking as though he were about to have a nervous break down at any second as often as he did.

"You seen Gregory?”

“Uh, Gregory?” Harold pondered it for a moment. He finally looked over Gregory's empty cubicle.

“Did you need something from him? I guess could help you, if you want—”

“Has he called you? Spoken with you recently?” Mike pressed impatiently.

Harold blinked rapidly, visibly befuddled.

“Well, actually come to think of it, no. He hasn't been in for a while has he?”

Harold chomped excitedly at the potential piece of gossip. “Oh! No way! Do you think he quit?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, only half-listening after Harold had replied "no".

He thanked the still-burbling man and made his way back to his own cubicle.

He was still thinking about it when he settled back down at his desk. Surely it was going to be a whole lot of nothing. Mike watched the people pass by him over the wall of his cubicle. Maybe Gregory would call today or tomorrow, beg for his job back and provide a reason for his absence—though it seemed unlikely that Louis would be merciful. 

He struggled to remember the last few days. When in the week prior had Gregory disappeared? Mike had been working on back-to-back cases for Harvey the entire time. If he hadn't been so loaded with work, would he have noticed something was wrong?

He tried not to think about the things on Gregory's desk, so neatly organized like the other associate hadn't gone at all.

* * *

Harvey and he had a deposition in about—well, hell, now.

Mike gave the enemy a half-smile and was met with deadpan stares from the man and his lawyer. Where the hell was Harvey? Mike had spent the last ten minutes looking outside, looking at his hands, and sneaking glances at the ridiculously full, snow-white mustache the other lawyer was sporting. 

He worried over the idea that this was some sort of test. That maybe it would act as a catalyst where he would prove himself a capable lawyer by deposing the two individuals on his own. This he had eventually dismissed, nerves and common sense getting the better of him. Mostly the nerves though.

“I'm sorry about this. Could you excuse me for a moment?” Mike said while rising.

“Oh yes. You've already wasted most of my client's time, why not waste it a little more?” the lawyer remarked scathingly.

Mike felt his pride chipped by the jab and could only bring himself to nod in their client's direction.

Exiting the meeting room, he glanced at his watch and tucked the folders containing Harvey and his trump card—an insurance report with some suspicious activity highlighted—into his messenger bag. He hurried down the hallway in the direction of Harvey's office. 

Be on time, Harvey had said. Never keep a client waiting, Harvey had said. It'll look bad on the firm, Harvey had said.

He expected to find Donna typing away at her desk but found her missing. His eyes lifted then to Harvey's office, empty all but for Harvey seated at his desk. He wasn't on the phone so entering seemed to be in the clear. Truthfully, Mike was more worried about giving their opponents time to prepare than irritating his boss at that particular moment.

“Harvey?”

At Mike's utterance, Harvey rapidly moved. The office was filed with the sound of crumpling paper. Harvey tossed the balled up wad into the nearby trash can. The action itself was jerky, almost as if Harvey were trying to do it under the table and out of Mike's line sight.

Mike hesitated.

“Everything okay?”

“Besides you bursting into my office like you own the place?” Harvey answered dryly.

“Uh, remember the client? We have a deposition! Actually, it was supposed to start like thirteen minutes ago.” Mike lifted the wrist he was wearing his watch on, as if to prove this.

“Alright, alright. Settle down Mike, I didn't forget.”

Harvey looked himself then, cool as a cucumber. He stood, buttoning his vest and jacket, and swung around his desk to face Mike.

“I decided to let them steam for a little bit. You don't seriously think they don't know we have something on them, do you? Why do you think they agreed to come meet us after all that push back?”

Harvey briefly glanced at his own watch and put his hands in his pockets.

"They're desperate. I could smell it on 'Yosemite Sam' there a mile away. Second they show weakness, we go in for the kill—or future settlement, as it were.”

“Alright, what gives. How is it that you're always so certain things will go your way? You're wrong about things sometimes, right?”

“Kid, by now you should expect that things will always go my way. You've worked for me for nearly half a year and you don't know this yet?”

"It's been half a year? Funny, with all the work I've been doing it's felt like at least two years. I feel like I deserve partner by now. Actually, thanks for admitting that I work for you rather than with you, you know, like if you and I were equals or something."

"Threatening to throw me under the bus makes us equals? You've got a shitty understanding of the word 'equality'."

"Ah, but it was a mutual understanding there, remember? Remember that respect, for like a second," Mike said blithely, indicating between Harvey and himself.

"We have a deposition! Remember?" Harvey responded, mocking Mike's previous sentiment with fake concern.

Mike followed after the senior partner as he left the office. He had decided to forget about what he had seen.

The deposition went down just as Harvey had said it would. By the time they arrived, both the opposing attorney and client seemed incapable of sitting still, their nervousness nearly palpable. The mustached attorney implied, at first, that they would be leaving but Harvey had smooth-talked the both of them back into their seats. He immediately launched into an easy-going line of questioning. Contrary to the light pace he was brutal and derisive while remaining on task and smiling.

By the end of it, Harvey had them cornered. And as always, Mike was awed as he watched Harvey's effortless work. They way he spoke, the type of questions he asked, the exact spots he knew to prod—all revealed an intrinsic knowledge of human nature. It was like watching a well-oiled machine; this was what Harvey was made for, this is why he was well-known, respected, and even feared by those around him.

“Okay. That was amazing.”

“Wasn't it?” Harvey replied easily, without missing a beat.

Mike continued on, eyes bright, “But I mean, did you see the looks on their faces? They backpedaled in the time it takes me to tie my shoelaces.” 

“If you take that long to tie your shoes, Mike, I think we may have a problem here.”

“Do you think they have a place in Guinness' for world's quickest change of heart in a deposition?”

“I think that would have to go to Louis, you know, after killing off poor Elliot Perkins.”

“But he didn't actually kill that guy right? Actually, I don't think I was ever clear on what really happened with that.”

Their brisk walk had brought them back to Harvey's office, specifically Donna's desk, and Harvey accepted a readied clipboard, signing it with a scrawl.

The opposition in this case would be far more receptive to a revised settlement offer than before. Mike felt more than giddy at the prospect of successfully getting their client not only what they had asked for but a little extra. It had been hard work but worth it in the end.

“We should go out to dinner to celebrate,” Mike wistfully said.

Donna shot Harvey a pointed look who, in turn, shot Mike a pointed look. The mirrored reaction was actually quite funny. 

“Oh wait, you mean you want me to pay for your dinner?” Harvey drawled.

Mike only shrugged. “Well, I might have blown my spending money for the week again, having lunch with Rachel. You know, paying for my food—”

“—and her food, huh? A real gentleman,” Harvey ridiculed and then was quiet for a moment as he waited for Donna to give him something else to sign.

His wrist flicked out another signature and he handed the loose form back to Donna and clicked his pen before tucking it into the inside of his jacket. There was a curious, pondering look on his face, as he did so. Then he curtly nodded.

“Alright, I know a place. Don't, I repeat, don't, ride your bike there for God's sake. Ray and I'll pick you up. Nine sharp.”

"What kind of godforsaken place in this city doesn't have a bike rack outside of it?"

Harvey pressed his side against Donna's desk and smirked. "Oh? You want to walk there? Well, I won't stop you."

"Right, right. No bike. Now is this dress down or dress up?" Mike waved down his front. "Recall that this is 'dressing up' for me. Am I going to need to change after work?"

Harvey gave him a once over, a slow drag of a pained look from shoes to face, and Mike took that as his answer.

He had been prepared for Harvey to turn down his request. Hearing Harvey's assent, albeit reluctant, pleased him. Any stress that he had accumulated in the past weeks was beginning to melt away and was replaced with warm contentment.

“Look, I'm doing this because I'm in a good mood. Don't get used to it.”

“Understood,” Mike replied seriously. He stood to attention with a little salute and Harvey frowned.

“Yeah, I haven't slept in three days,” Mike explained.

Donna couldn't keep from smiling. She gave Harvey a fond, sleepy-eyed look.

“He's a keeper,” she only said.

* * *

It was night and Mike was tired but happy. He had remained at his cubicle for the rest of the day, leaving only to go to the bathroom and make some photocopies. He was intent on getting the bulk of his work out of the way before dinner. He wouldn't get another lull in his schedule like this for a long time. After pushing through case after case he would finally be allowed a moment of reprieve. "Momentary" was the key word, though, because even if Harvey didn't require his assistance Louis always liked to spring something up out of the blue.

He looked forward to being able to sleep and wake up without random highlighter marks and ink-print ending up on his face for once. The last time he had slept on his work no one had bothered to tell him that he had a slightly smudged imprint of "Must be filed within sixty days of the first date set" on his cheek.

Squinting at the mass of text before him, he highlighted a line and placed a little green post-it flag on the top of the page, marking his place for the night. The words he had just read were, as always, fresh in his mind and would remain buried until he had need of them again. Each recalled sentence, whether it be tomorrow or next month, would be as clear as day down to the last punctuation mark. 

He yawned and stretched.

Suddenly conscious of the time, he checked his watch and grabbed his bag, packing his things away. Seven-forty; it would give him enough time to get back home and get dressed. As he stood and lifted his bag over his shoulder, he got a whiff of ripeness from under his arm and lifted an eyebrow. He could probably shoot for a shower too while he was at it.

“Leaving early, Ross?” Kyle sang from his cubicle. Mike only saw his arm, can of red bull in hand.

“Goodnight Kyle,” Mike answered dismissively, not in the mood to start anything with the other associate.

“That's okay, us actual associates have some work to do—you know, actual work.”

“You're an unsung hero,” Mike called out as he stuffed his ID back into his pocket.

“Really nice comeback there—no really Mike,” Kyle's condescending tone faded away as Mike left the bull pen shaking his head.

He eventually came upon Rachel's office and slowed. She looked hard at work as usual, hair tied into a messy bun. She was bent over a large book and as close as he was he could see her lips moving as she traced a finger across the page. Mike half-thought to enter and say goodnight but guardedly decided against it.

It would be too dangerous, considering whatever it was that had weaseled its way between them. Their relationship had done a complete one-eighty since their abrasive first meeting. It had been playful flirting at first, innocent and thoughtless for a while. It had been a dance around the periphery of their growing friendship, so to speak. But Mike was quickly becoming aware of how much more he watched and really just _looked_ at her.

He still didn't know what exactly she was to him, even after all this time. And it was a frightening feeling because there was Jenny. There was always Jenny, and that was good because he had loved Jenny for a long time. Jenny was good for him. She was all that should matter. But every time Rachel smiled that dazzling smile he wondered, and then was left guilty for even wondering in the first place.

He shifted to the side slightly, finding his feet unwilling to obey him, and then forced himself to continue on. Whatever was going on, it wasn't worth acting on and potentially destroying what he had managed to find for Jenny and himself. It wouldn't be fair to either woman.

* * *

He was making good time. 

A warm shower and a new suit later and he had a handful of minutes to spare. He decided to take a look at some of the work he brought home with him and busied with that until the time swung around for him to be picked up. 

He had a spring in his step as he made his way down to the front of the entrance of his apartment and waited. In the moment, he decided against bringing an extra coat since Harvey would be around in a matter of minutes. The man was, if nothing else, punctual when it came to personal engagements. With women at least, Mike had observed.

Half an hour passed and he still found himself waiting.

The heat released from his mouth left in misty puffs and he was no longer impervious to the cold. He briefly considered going inside and waiting, but Harvey had said nine sharp and was probably going to rush over at any moment. He was thinking frostbite, more than stubbornness, might have more likely rooted him to spot. 

He considered calling Harvey but the idea that he might interrupt Harvey during something important dissuaded him. He started pacing outside of his apartment's entrance for another hour and eventually took to pressing and erasing the first three digits of Harvey's number on his phone over and over again with numbed fingers.

A drunken pack of twenty-somethings laughed their way into the building, finding his presence near the stoop unimaginably amusing. Not a soul was in sight when Mike finally read his watch for the last time. Eleven forty-five. He dropped his arm with a loud exhale and looked around him a bit helplessly. Harvey wasn't going to be here. There went his night and any hope of good food along with it.

Back in his dark apartment, he looked down at his phone and tried to decide if he was more angry than forlorn. Harvey hadn't even called, hadn't even sent him a text of some kind. It was enough for him to suspect that an emergency had probably reared its head, but he still would've liked some kind of heads up. 

He felt foolish for waiting out in the cold for as long as he had, even more so for how achingly disappointed he felt. He had been looking forward to eating dinner with Harvey but didn't expect that he had looked forward to it _that_ much.

He let his eyes drop to his shoes and passed a hand through his hair which he had actually taken the time to tame. All he wanted now was to be somewhere warm. His apartment was silent, save for the loud music being blasted a couple doors down. Mike felt distinctly unsatisfied with the idea of sleeping in an empty bed.

He grabbed a coat and left.

* * *

Jenny's place had a sort of organized chaos and bohemianism that he had always liked. They spent time apart only because she didn't like him having his work piled up on the bed or kitchen counter. With the recent pileup of cases, the length of their separation was painful for him.

She greeted him with a white-toothed smile and Mike eagerly focused on her, embraced the sudden affection he felt for her. She was just as beautiful as when he had first saw her in that bar, all those years back.

He took a step forward to gently lean against her smaller form with an exaggerated spent exhalation.

They made love but Mike found that he couldn't sleep after. Instead, he laid awake with Jenny sleeping fitfully under his arm, his eyes trying to bore through the darkened ceiling.


	3. Chapter 3

The goal for more sleep and less work hadn't quite panned out like he thought it would. He ended up dragging his aching feet to Pearson Hardman the next day, feeling—if it was even possible—more tired than he had felt the day before.

The security guard had given him a sympathetic once-over when he had scanned his laminate and Mike had nearly missed his floor after nodding off in the elevator. He could already tell that it would be—if not his most shitty day—at least something terribly close to it. Nevertheless, feeling sluggish and cross, he went through the motions.

“What is this?” he inquired grumpily when an associate planted something weighty on his desk just as he reached it.

“Work for Louis. Due by the end of the day,” the dark-haired man only replied while walking away.

Mike carelessly tossed his bag onto his desk and sat down with a groan. So much for that long-awaited break. Louis seemed more than capable of sniffing out the most inopportune time to assign extra work. It was like he could smell misery.

Mike flipped through the pages of the documents for a second and then placed both hands on his face and rubbed furiously, trying re-energize himself. The cold cereal he had eaten sat heavily in his stomach, making him feel a little ill, and the coffee was taking a while to kick in. It would be a miracle if he could get through the day.

“Mike? Mike, can I talk to you for a second?”

The voice belonged to Rachel. Mike removed his hands from his face. She looked pale and her eyes where shining as though she were about to cry, or had been crying all morning. Mike shot to his feet, feeling a sudden kick of energy, and came to her side. He put a hand on her shoulder and frowned when he felt her tremble under his touch. She eased back from him a little, and he took his hand from her.

“Rachel, what happened? What's wrong?”

She shook her head wordlessly, lips pressed tightly together like it was all that she could do to keep from releasing the sob Mike could see working in her throat.

“No, no. It's not me, it's—," she stopped mid-sentence and cleared her throat. She put a shaky hand to her forehead and let out a stuttered breath. "Can, uh, we go to the break room for a second? Please?”

Mike mumbled out a score of soothing "yeahs" and followed her. Once they arrived, she closed the door behind them. She had her hand on her mouth, closed her eyes, and then lowered it to rest it on the nearby counter.

“It's Gregory, Mike—God, didn't you hear?” she whispered, voice tight.

Mike felt a nervous tug at his gut at the associate’s name. Gregory had been missing for so long now, but he had pushed it to the back of his thoughts.

“Mike, they found his body this morning. He was...someone _killed_ him Mike.”

* * *

 

Mike found himself violently sick in the men's restroom and he grimaced at the taste of bile and the burn he felt in his throat as his strained esophagus lurched again. Gregory's dead, something in his head unnecessarily reminded him. The nausea that welled up inside of him threatened to spill another mouthful of vomit into the toilet and Mike held a hand to his lower abdomen, slightly bent over. _Gregory’s dead._

He could remember every word Rachel had said like she was there in the stall with him, speaking them again. Gregory's body had been found near Pearson Hardman that morning, thrown away like garbage in a dumpster in the back of some cafe. His imagination had shifted into overdrive, producing a vivid tableau of Gregory's limp and glassy-eyed corpse. He retched again, his face feeling hot, and held on to the toilet seat with trembling hands.

Standing was far worse than his position on his knees. His back connected hard with the stall wall with a disconcerting rattle as the inertial lag of his blood caught up with him. He breathed in deeply and immediately regretted it as the sour fumes wafting up from the toilet was the most prominent odor in the bathroom. He flushed the toilet and had to steady himself for a moment before he opened the stall door and carefully made his way to the sink.

The faucet sprang to life and he thoroughly scrubbed his hands with soap before he cupped them and used them to splash some of the icy water onto his face. He rubbed and rinsed his mouth out and hung his head over the sink as a distinct buzzing sound filled his ears. A sense of physical weakness came over him. 

Was this all really happening right now? He blinked slowly, feeling the light tickle of the water dripping from his eyelashes and parted lips. He coughed and then raised his head.

He balked when saw his haggard reflection in the mirror and he ran a damp hand through his hair.

His appearance, after he dried off the remaining water with a paper towel from the dispenser and halfheartedly groomed himself, was only slightly improved. He fixed his tie and jacket, relieved that he hadn't gotten any vomit on the expensive clothing.

Mike felt dazed as he left the restroom. The entire hallway seemed to tilt and he planted his feet uncertainly, feeling himself tilt along with it. He was thrown off by the bright sunlight flooding through the windows. That wasn't right, somehow. People passed by him looking as if they were moving through water, their murmurs nothing but a dull roar. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get a hold of himself and his thoughts.

He felt a slow-rising thrill of hysteria settle in his chest as it all threatened to hit him again.

A life was gone, just like that.

When he opened his eyes there was a resonating _ding_ that sounded from the nearby elevator. Mike turned his head in time to see the individuals who stepped through; both were dressed in dark suits. His sharp eyes picked out the badges that they flashed the assistant at the front desk. Detectives. They were probably there to search Gregory's cubicle, he realized uneasily. The police weren't wasting any time in starting their investigation.

The mere sight of the badges put him even more ill at ease; he couldn't count how many nightmares he had had with cops with badges showing up at Pearson Hardman. Gregory's desk was very close to his. The idea of being nearby as the two detectives went through Gregory's things brought the hysteria up to his throat. It was likely that they would use the time it took as an excuse to ask the neighboring associates, including himself, questions.

Instead of heading back to the bull pen, he turned in the opposite direction, toward the only other place he could think of to go. 

* * *

But Harvey was nowhere in sight.

Donna wasn't at her desk either. Mike opened the door to Harvey's office and looked around the quiet room. He drummed his fingers against the glass. Harvey had been a no-show last night. Gregory's body had been found that morning. He struggled to find a reason for both.

“Mike?”

His grip briefly tightened on the door. He faced Donna and relaxed as much as he was able to.

“There you are, Donna. Is Harvey here?” Mike managed to get out, his voice hoarse and raw from his brief stint in the bathroom.

Donna only shook her head.

He shifted on the spot, unsettled by her grim look. Her usual demeanor of aloofness was replaced with a rigidity that made her seem like she was nursing an injury.

“He's speaking with Jessica,” she clarified and continued to speak as she made her way over to her desk, “And he told me to tell you that he's sorry, about last night.”

An apology. That was unexpected. But Mike knew that if he tried to press for more information Harvey would assuredly attempt to divert the discussion toward something else. 

“I have to talk to him,” Mike murmured, not sure if Donna could hear him or if he even wanted Donna to hear him. But, of course, she did.

“It'll have to wait. He's busy.”

Mike felt his throat tighten a little at the statement.

The way Donna and Harvey behaved around one another didn't leave much to the imagination. Their relationship was obviously a complex one. Whatever it was that was going on—this mystery client who had called Harvey and that piece of paper Harvey had suspiciously gotten rid of—was it possible that Harvey had solely confided in Donna on the matter?

He avoided her searching gaze, his eyes instead finding the waves of ginger hair that fell over one of her shoulders.

He was astonished and embarrassed to find that he felt a pang of jealousy. It twisted him up for a moment but he shook it off as best he could.

“It's important. It has to do with our case,” Mike lied, feeling all the more worse for it.

If Donna could see through him, she didn't betray it. She only quietly appraised him and then nodded.

* * *

He stopped a good enough distance from Jessica's office to not be noticed immediately. From where he was, he could immediately pick out the two detectives he had seen downstairs along with Jessica Pearson, standing tall, with her arms crossed. Had they finished with Gregory's cubicle already?

His eyes drifted to find Harvey sitting on the couch. He was sitting on the edge of it, hands clasped, as though ready to bolt.

Jessica directed some questions to Harvey which Harvey responded to. Then he suddenly rose and addressed the two detectives himself. Their exchange was short. Harvey briskly exited Jessica's office, leaving the detectives looking after him unhappily.

Mike opened his mouth as Harvey approached but found that his throat didn't seem to be working properly. Seeing Harvey alive and well had rendered him curiously mute.

Harvey's pace slowed when he saw Mike but his usual mask of cool indifference held as he neared.

“Mike,” Harvey greeted dismissively.

“What happened last night?” Mike questioned stiffly.

The muscle of Harvey's jaw twitched, almost too fast to catch. Mike realized, a bit late, that his question hadn't been specific enough. With what had happened with Gregory there was no doubt that that held more of Harvey's—hell the entire firm's—attention. He was about to backtrack when Harvey spoke.

“I canceled our plans. Sorry I didn't let you know.”

“Why?” Mike pressed further, knowing perfectly well that he was stepping out of bounds.

Harvey fixed Mike with an inscrutable look. It was almost as if he were mulling something over in that short period of time, weighing something. The heavy gaze lingered and then passed over Mike to Jessica's office behind them. The detectives were still inside, speaking to Jessica.

Harvey took a step back and gestured sharply for Mike to follow him.

“Let's talk in my office.”

* * *

Mike stood awkwardly in front of Harvey's desk feeling a little less aggravated by Harvey's behavior and now anxious due to the cryptic summons. He felt put on the spot by the senior partner.

“Have those detectives spoken with you?”

The curt inquiry threw Mike off guard.

“What? Well, no, I saw them come in but—”

“They're going to contact you and ask you about Gregory. They'll probably do the same for any of the other associates who were familiar enough with him,” Harvey interrupted and passed a hand across his forehead.

Mike opened his mouth, blinked, and then quickly re-accessed the situation. This wasn't going to be a conversation about last night or the phone call. No, this was about something else entirely.

“You're worried about our 'secret'."

As nervous as seeing the two detectives had made him, as far as he knew, he probably wasn't ranked very high on their list of possible suspects. And he assumed that it would be far too early in the case for that anyway. He also had a forged Harvard degree—courtesy of Lola—backing him up. Closer scrutiny on the subject wouldn’t be desired but he thought that there would be no reason for the detectives to look back any further than when he had begun to work at Pearson Hardman.

“Where were you last night?” Harvey probed.

“Waiting. To be picked up. By you. For dinner. Remember? In fact I was outside waiting for like two hours Harvey, you couldn't have sent a text or something—”

“But you were by yourself the whole time? In front of your apartment? Did anyone see you?”

Mike looked around the room as though Harvey's intense line of questioning had been directed at someone else.

“I don't—some people walking in might have seen me?” came Mike's bewildered response.

The response seemed to pacify Harvey. He leaned back into his chair.

“Any reason for the inquisition?” Mike questioned and received a look that went through him.

“I'm trying to cement your alibi, that's all,” Harvey declared.

“Wait, so this isn't actually about you and I being found out. You're just worried I'll be put under suspicion for what happened to Gregory?”

“It's both. If you're put under the magnifying glass—even if you are cleared for having nothing to do with Gregory's death—who's to say some dirty laundry won't be aired in the process?”

Harvey gave Mike an exasperated look when Mike made a face. "And, obviously, I know you had nothing to do with it.”

“Okay. My turn,” Mike announced and looked at Harvey expectantly.

Harvey was quiet for a moment and then scooted forward to retrieve a pen.

“I was held up during an impromptu meeting. Last minute call, deal was about to go sour. My touch was needed. It was too late to call, anyway, by the time I got out of it.”

Harvey rifled through some documents on his desk before he settled on something. He looked up at Mike impishly.

“Anything else, dear?”

He should've smiled back, maybe come up with a clever retort. But putting Harvey at ease was far from his mind. All he could think about was what it was that Harvey was withholding from him. He cataloged Harvey's response to join the others he had received over the course of the past month. It did very little for him. The irritation he felt when he looked at Harvey now was growing by the second; he was long passed caring if it showed on his face.

“I just want to understand why this happened,” Mike muttered.

This statement noticeably changed the atmosphere in the room. Harvey seemed to wilt in his seat but the effect passed as quickly as it had come.

“If you need some time off I can give it to you. But things have to go on at the firm Mike. And I need you.”

Harvey didn't look up at Mike as he said this. He put his pen to paper and began to determinedly write.

* * *

Louis hardly seemed torn up by the news about Gregory, at least on the surface, though this didn't come as a surprise to anyone.

When Mike delivered his assigned work to the junior partner, he didn't receive so much as a word in return and Louis seemed to purposefully ignore him for the rest of the day. This suited Mike just fine. Louis had looked very grey and very drawn, leading Mike to a somewhat comforting thought that he was perhaps human like the rest of them.

What Mike couldn't stand were the rumors and the whispering. The associate rumor mill was churning at it's highest rate in recent memory and he had overheard countless discussions and theories about the exact circumstances concerning Gregory's death. It had only been a day and his fellow coworkers were already gossiping over the deceased associate like some frivolous matter. Once or twice he had to stop himself from rounding a nearby gaggle of people and voicing his outrage. But he knew there was some hypocrisy in what he felt, since he too had the morbid desire to know more about the details of the case, as much as he would have liked to deny it.

Rachel had left early for the day and against all better judgment Mike had asked her if she wanted any company. The idea seemed to appeal to her for a moment but she had politely turned him down. Perhaps it had been for the best.

By the end of the day he had felt numb and emotionally drained. There was little work left to be done and it didn't seem like there would be much happening at the firm until the investigation had moved on. Mike couldn't bring himself to look over at Gregory's desk half of the time. Whenever he did spare a reluctant glance in that direction, he felt a cold chill run down his spine. The detectives had cleared everything out, bagged their evidence, and all that was left was a skeleton of the cubicle Gregory had once sat in.

* * *

When Mike got home he seriously considered going over to Jenny's place. If there was ever a time he didn't want to be alone it was now. There was an ache that had followed him since he had spoken to Rachel and it had whittled away at him and had made him want to go talk to Jenny. He wanted to see her face and remind himself of what he was attempting to gamble with. 

He checked his messages, having had his phone on 'Do not disturb' all day, and felt his gut twinge at the single missed call. Trevor.

 _“Hey Mike. Long time. I guess—I just I heard about what happened to that guy who worked at that law firm you're at. Uh, I don't know if you knew him or anything but I just wanted to check in, see what's going on."_ A sigh. _"Make—make sure everything's okay. You know. Make sure you're okay. Uh, if you want to talk or anything. Or, I don't know. Uh, don't hesitate to give me a call, 'kay brother? I know it's been rough between us but I still consider you to be one of my closest friends. Alright...call me back man.”_

Mike stopped the voice mail before it went on to the rest of the saved messages, sat down heavily at his tiny dining table, and put his head down on his folded arms.

* * *

A quick succession of rapping on his door woke him.

Disoriented, he sat up blinking. How long had he been asleep? His phone was lying on the table out of his hands and he was still in his work clothes. He must have dozed off after listening to Trevor's voice mail. A quick squint at his watch—only nine?—and he frowned.

He almost stumbled out of his chair to the ground as the knocking sounded again. He smoothed his tousled hair as best he could and dragged himself to the door. He rubbed his mouth, still thick with sleep, and leaned forward to press up against the door to look through the peephole.

It took a moment for his bleary vision to re-adjust and when it had, his breath caught at the sight of the two detectives from earlier that morning. For a second, he lost the ability to form a coherent thought.

He drew back and looked down at the door handle, touched it briefly, and then withdrew his hand as though the brass had burned him. He didn't have to talk to them. They didn't have a warrant, they wouldn't have needed one, so they couldn't force their way in or anything. But what purpose would ignoring them really serve? They would simply continue to come back until they finally got a hold of him.

He unlocked and opened the door.

“Micheal James Ross?” the blond detective questioned with a smile and held up his badge.

Mike nodded wordlessly, sparing the gold medallion and number a cursory glance.

“I'm Detective Langley and that's Detective Vicker. We have some questions concerning the passing of one of your coworkers, Gregory Boone. I'm sure you're already aware of what happened to him. Word spreads fast in a firm like that. Don't worry, you aren't in any trouble.” 

The other detective, Detective Vicker, spoke up, “We just need a few details about what you remember happening before his disappearance.”

He welcomed them inside, wondering faintly if doing so would be good idea or not. All in all, he felt too flustered to really care. It was surprisingly hard to concentrate, having two individuals from law enforcement on one's couch.

The first of the two detectives, Detective Langely, seemed to be as far as he could tell the more amicable of the two. His voice was mellow and unassuming. He seemed genuinely interested in what Mike had to say and smiled constantly. In comparison, Detective Vicker seemed to be not so much an angry man as he was no-nonsense. It was clearly written on his face that he would rather be elsewhere at that moment.

In other words, good cop, bad cop, respectively. Mike wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

“And you weren't aware of Mr. Boone's disappearance until you were told by Mr. Litt, is this correct?”

Mike nodded, caught himself, and then replied verbally, “Yes.”

He and Langely had been talking for a good fifteen minutes. The questions had been mostly general and non-specific. In fact, none of the questions seemed to have any direct connection to his relationship with Gregory. This baffled him in his still somewhat half-asleep state.

Langley's smile grew at Mike's jerky response. He wrote something down in his small notebook, which he had earlier procured from his jacket pocket. 

Vicker seemed largely uninterested in the conversation at hand. He left the questions to his partner and took the entire time to instead expressionlessly gaze around him.

Mike nervously looked between the two of them, suddenly regretting letting them into his apartment.

“Okay. Well, that should be all Mr. Ross. You've been quite helpful,” Langley stated warmly and tucked his pen and notebook into his pocket with practiced care.

“Sure,” Mike replied uneasily.

Langely made as if to stand and then suddenly stopped, holding up a hand—his face brightening with sudden realization. Or perhaps manufactured realization.

“I almost forgot. One last question, if you don't mind. I know we've wasted enough of your time tonight so I'll make it succinct." 

The detective settled back into the couch and checked his watch before going on on.

"Now, you are Harvey Specter's associate, am I correct?

Mike was taken aback by the unexpected mention of Harvey's name and Langely shot him knowing smile.

“Relax. I'm not going to tell him about our visit. Mr. Ross, has Harvey spoken with you recently? Specifically said anything about Gregory's death? Anything you might have found odd?”

Mike's mind worked quickly.

“N-no he hasn't."

“It's alright son. I wasn't looking to ruin your night.”

Langely reached into his pocket and took out a slightly bent business card.

“This has my badge number on it and the department phone number on it. Call it and ask for me, if you want to talk again. Or you can swing by the precinct anytime—the address is on there too. Maybe we can have some coffee and chat. Does that sound alright with you, Mike?”

Mike hesitated at the familiar use of his first name and Langely continued to smile on, holding out his card until Mike doubtfully took it.

Langely then nodded to his partner who rose with a stoic look.

“Do you think you can show us out?”

Mike numbly led them to the door and was in the process of closing it when Vicker put a hand on the door-frame, effectively hampering the action. He looked up into the taller man's eyes.

“I'm sure you knew that Gregory was a good guy. It would be shame if you were keeping something secret, just to cover someone's ass. Something, for instance, that might help us find the bastard that did this to him.”

Mike could not reply.

“Anyway, take care Mike. We'll be in touch.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mike spoke with his grandmother over the weekend.

It didn't come as any surprise to him that she wanted to know how he had been doing. Much of the city was following the story now. _Pearson Hardman Associate Found Dead: No Suspects Named_. The media was unstoppable, a surging current of eager, so-called experts who attempted to paint a picture with what few details the police had released—he was hard pressed to find a reprieve from it all.

The passing of his parents had hit him hard, harder than anything had his entire life. It had taken years for him to recover. Not just to recover in the sense of being able to function physically and emotionally, but to be able to get to a point where he was no longer held down by the idea of what might have been. It did of course still hurt. It always would. But the pain was now manageable and the memories were more easily tucked away. Grammy had understood how difficult it had been for him, and likewise for her, being forced to raise him on her own. He could see why she thought that Gregory's passing may have revisited that weight to his shoulders.

It had surely been a shock, but Gregory had not been what one might call a "friend". Their interactions could only be defined as mundane, barring a brief rivalry that they eventually had retired from once Mike had cemented his status as Harvey's sole associate. But these memories, Mike had found, always ended up being the clearest. He couldn't help but recollect Gregory's mannerisms, the way Gregory would often glance over at him while Louis came by to bark at whoever was unfortunate enough to be targeted for that day. To think of these things, and that Gregory's death meant the complete absence of them, hurt in a different and yet depressingly similar way.

He eased her concerns as best he could.

Mike didn't mention Harvey. There was no need to beat the metaphorical dead horse. He finally considered that venture to be exhausted ad nauseam.

But he found himself often recalling the strange behavior of the two detectives. It was like they asked their questions already knowing the answers to them, only wanting to gauge his reaction. They made as if their focus was on Gregory but the true target of their inquires had in fact been Harvey. Their apparent interest in Harvey baffled him. Were they trying to pin Gregory's murder on him? For all his faults, Harvey didn't seem capable of such a thing—in Mike's opinion. Mike had also chosen not to mention the detective's visit to Harvey, only thinking it fair that he be allowed to have some secrets of his own.

The rest of his weekend had been mostly uneventful. Sunday, Jenny and he had gone to see Waiting for Godot at the playhouse down the street from her apartment. But he had found it difficult to concentrate on what was happening. He knew Jenny had noticed the mood he was in but she didn't mention it, which he had been thankful for.

He was starting to feel less inclined to stay overnight with her since the news about Gregory. Every time he stepped through the door, he felt as though he were dragging something in behind him that was starting to taint their sporadic conversations. It frustrated him that it was always there. Something that would eventually need to be discussed one way or another. That without a conversation it would somehow adversely affect him. Maybe even affect their relationship.

Jenny had made it clear, in a roundabout way, that she was willing to talk about it if he was willing. She was trying, but Mike noticed that her gaze was starting to grow shuttered to him. He appreciated the mere fact that she even tried at all. She was patient with him, despite him never wanting to dredge up how he was managing. Regardless if it was the right or wrong way, he was dealing with it the way he wanted to. That had to count for something.

The sex had grown anemic as well, pillow-talk avoided. They seemed to settle back into the old routine of her being Trevor's girlfriend.

As a result, they started spending less time together. But they refrained from committing to anything final for their own unspoken reasons.

* * *

Eventually, Pearson Hardman returned to state of normality. Mike grudgingly realized that Harvey had been right. Things would go on regardless of what had happened. The world wouldn't stop for just one man.

Gregory's funeral was to be held in a couple of days after the police finally turned over his body to his family. Mike had sent his condolences, signed the sympathy cards; _in lieu of flowers donate to a listed charity organization of your choice._

None of the other associates seemed to want to speak of what had happened any more—work for the firm pushing its way to the forefront of their thoughts—and Gregory's desk and cubicle remained eerily empty. But there was no doubt that this too would not last. One day, another associate would simply fill his position.

Mike removed his earphones—the lingering notes of Armstrong’s trumpet cut off—and stacked his finished work. It hadn't taken long for Louis to give him another assignment from one of his cases, as well as for another case of Harvey's to pop up. For once he couldn't complain. He welcomed the excuse to keep himself busy. The alternative caused him to take to sulking.

Work in his arms, he stood and swung around his cubicle, thumbing through a couple of the pages without looking up, and almost slammed into a slim form that seemed to deliberately walk into his path.

“Mike! Uh, hey. Hey. How's it going, man? On the ol' grind?” Harold greeted with a kind of faked familiarity that came across as incredibly forced.

“Harold. Everything’s fine. Look, I've gotta get this work to Louis,” Mike said quickly as Harold started to open his mouth again. He hadn't meant to sound dismissive but Louis had been asking for the edited opening briefs since that morning. Mike didn't much feel like getting berated today, especially since Louis seemed more on edge than usual. He wasn't sure he'd be able to take any abuse without snapping back, and that would only likely end in disaster.

“Oh yeah. Sure. Uh—sorry Mike,” Harold began, defeated, then seemed to change his mind by grabbing the back of Mike's jacket.

“Hey. I just—would it be alright if we could we talk later?"

Mike took in Harold's appearance again. He was dancing on the spot, though this wasn't too unusual for him; his face was splotched, as though he had just run up several flights of stairs. He also looked liked he had dressed in haste for the day, shirt rumpled but easily concealed if he kept his jacket buttoned. 

If it had anything to do with a case, Mike wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be apart of it. But it was generally hard for him to look Harold in the eye and tell him "no" so he considered only the positives; he'd potentially get a favor out of it and it might help to keep his thoughts from straying.

He gave a noncommittal twitch of his head which, despite the vagueness of this gesture, seemed to please Harold immensely. While backing away, he had to endure a few mumbled "thank yous" cascaded on him and several violations of his personal space before Harold finally let him go. 

Mike glanced over his shoulder only once, as he hurriedly left the bull pen, and found Harold still standing in the same spot, intently watching him go.

* * *

“For God's sake, they're bluffing. This is my way of calling their bluff. I've already told you this, Tim. Okay, but you have your methods and I have mine, right? Would you agree? No, I'm asking if you understand. Okay, let me ask you something; who's the best closer in New York? Well if that's the one thing we can agree on, then don't you think you should let me do my job?”

Harvey beckoned Mike into his office with a finger.

“Look, I'd think you'd know if I were being condescending.”

Mike waited for Harvey to finish his conversation before he announced proudly:

“Nailed it. The case that is. All on my own.”

Harvey hesitated before putting the phone back down. He gave Mike an unimpressed look.

“And? Are you waiting for a pat on the head?”

“Well, seeing as it would be nice to finally be appreciated around here, a belly rub would be nice,” Mike joked.

“Right. Seeing as that case could have been won by a child, it should be reward enough that you have a cubicle to return to. I'd have fired you on the spot if you had told me otherwise.”

“You wouldn't be that cruel, would you?"

Harvey tilted his head, as if inviting Mike to test the theory.

“Okay. Anyway, all I need to do is submit the report. Anything else you need me from me Harvey? I just turned in some work to Louis earlier and—surprise, surprise—he's given me more to do. I actually want to go home tonight at a reasonable time, you know, or at least take a lunch.”

"It's all apart of the job. You work hard. You feel like shit. And until your billables reach my level you get appreciated for shit. Rinse and repeat."

"Aren't Louis' billables pretty much up there with yours? It doesn't look like he's as appreciated as you are around here, to me."

"That's because there's a key difference between Louis and me, Mike."

"Which is?"

"Uh, he's not me?" Harvey looked around incredulously, as though shocked that Mike hadn't come to the same conclusion.

"Classic. I don't know why I didn't see that coming."

Neither said anything for a beat and Mike abruptly felt the urge to leave, not trusting himself to remain in the silence without blurting something out. Harvey saved him the trouble of making up some excuse; when next he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly soft.

“How are you holding up?”

“Great, just great. You know, Gregory's funeral is in a couple of days. I'm going,” Mike replied conversationally. It was too late to take back how disdainful it sounded.

Harvey seemed unperturbed by Mike's reply, which Mike found disappointing. His expression remained thoughtful.

"Look, kid, be straight with me. If there's something you want to talk about then say so. Let's hear it.”

Mike cautiously backtracked, unwilling to push Harvey towards further questioning. He had forgotten how good Harvey was at reading people. Harvey had sensed his restlessness, his difficulty in keeping from obsessively thinking about Gregory and the detectives and Harvey's inexplicable interest in hiding something from him. 

He felt worse after coming into Harvey's office. It was strange how Harvey calling him a "kid" now irritated him, even knowing that it was playful, how viscerally he felt himself react to it. Hadn't he come into his own by now? Was it arrogance, not lack of trust, that kept Harvey from bringing him into the loop?

He ended up only shaking his head, tight-lipped, knowing that this was a terrible excuse for an answer and that it would only encourage Harvey's suspicions.

Harvey stared at him without saying anything, making Mike uncomfortable. Finally, Harvey seemed to deem unspoken reply satisfactory and let his eyes fall back to his desk. Mike felt some relief at Harvey's prudence. Harvey at least respected him enough not to press the matter.

"Fine. Send a copy of the report to Donna when you're done." 

Harvey turned a little in his chair and flicked his eyes back up at Mike with an expectant look.

"Alright, alright! I'm going," Mike exclaimed and hastily made his exit before Harvey could settle on something unpleasant to say.

* * *

"Mike, hey! Hey—you said you would have a minute later, right? I stopped by your desk but you weren't there. Did you stop by Harvey's right after talking to Louis?”

Mike heard Harold before he saw him and was startled to find the other associate trailing a step behind him. It was fairly obvious that Harold had staked out the hallway, waiting for Mike to emerge from Harvey's office, and thus rendered his own question moot. 

Bewildered, Mike met Harold's flustered look with an awkward hitch in his step. When Harold had said "later on" he had assumed more along the lines of an after work drink, not convene a mere two hours after the request. Mike had almost started to look forward to it, in fact, thinking that a night spent drinking might just be what he needed.

“This doesn't have anything to do with the McDonald briefs right because I swear to you I wasn't the one who filed them with the wrong office.”

Harold's eyes restlessly scanned the cubicles around them as they entered the bull pen. He had the high energy of someone who was thinking faster than they were able to speak.

“No, it's not about that. I need your advice. And—I don't know, there isn't really anyone else I can talk to about it.”

“What Harold, like girlfriend advice?” Mike couldn't help but tease.

The question threw Harold off, turning his ears red. He opened his mouth, prior words apparently lost at Mike's inquiry. They finally reached Mike's desk but Harold prevented Mike from sitting down, blocking his path with a raised hand.

"No, look—can we just talk. Okay? Somewhere private. Mike, please.”

Mike suppressed his annoyance at Harold's persistence. He had certainly been willing to at least consider it before, but meeting with Harvey had flung him into a bad mood again. Then again, he could see the revised bylaws Louis had given him just over Harold's shoulder. It was tedious work, meant to keep him at his desk without having him actually do anything. They weren't going anywhere. And he probably wouldn't be going anywhere either until some godforsaken hour.

As if seeing these fluctuations of thought on Mike's face, Harold eagerly added: "The file room. Let's go there."

Mike didn't get much chance to voice any potential protest as Harold had already started to walk away, stopping only to wait for Mike to follow him.

* * *

"Mr. Gunderson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?"

Harold balked, eyes wide, as he closed the door to the file room behind them. The room was empty, much to Mike's chagrin.

"What! No! Mike, I'm not—"

"Relax Harold. Dustin Hoffman?"

"Oh. Oh, right! Good one. 'Rain Man' right?"

"What? No, that's—okay, never mind. What did you want to talk about?"

As Mike tried to work past the disappointment of his failed reference, Harold made a great show of checking the nearby rows of boxed files for any potential eavesdroppers. He finally came back to stand in front of Mike, breathing hard and close enough that Mike felt compelled to take a step back. Harold said nothing for few seconds, visibly gathering his thoughts.

“It's about what happened to Gregory," Harold finally wavered out.

Mike felt a chill briefly visit his skin.

"What about it?" he asked stiffly.

Mike noted how much Harold's hands were shaking as he reached into his suit jacket and drew out a letter envelope. Harold handed it to Mike, who looked at it quizzically before taking it. There was no return address. He turned it over and raised an eyebrow at Harold who only nodded, indicating for Mike to continue. He opened the flap and took out the news clipping from within.

Marked as being printed four years ago, the article that had been selected was concerning the unsolved murders of two unidentified females found in a construction yard near the Hudson. The details were gruesome; the first Jane Doe's head had been so badly crushed that dental records could not be used to identify her, investigator's assumed a nearby piece of machinery might have been used. The second Jane Doe had been burned severely enough that identification was made impossible, but she was determined to be much younger. No arrests had been made or suspects named, as of the printed date.

"Why are you showing this to me?" Mike questioned, feeling sick.

"I got that in the mail two days ago, Mike. Just look at what's written on the back."

Mike turned the article over, saw the writing, and turned the paper landscape in order to read it. Scrawled along the length of the article's back were two sentences: _Gregory learned what this meant_ and under it _How many more will need to learn before he understands?_

"What do you think it means?" Mike felt as though Harold were speaking to him from a great distance. "'Learn' what? Until who understands?"

"You should have brought this to the detectives," Mike said quietly. A bodily shiver ran its course through him. He stuffed the article back into its envelope and pushed it against Harold's chest, eager to get it out of his hands.

"It might not be too late. They might—might still be able to get some prints off of it, or something." Mike's tongue felt thick and clumsy. His mind was once more starting up its vivid replays of Harvey's scramble to get rid of whatever had been in his hand. 

“You think someone around here might have a sick sense of humor?" Harold ventured nervously, making it clear that he was hoping that this was the case. He gingerly held the envelope, showing no desire of wanting it in his possession either.

"I mean, I'm just wondering if it's even worth going to them with it. I wouldn't want to impede the investigation or any—”

“Harold. Take it to the detectives,” Mike interrupted impatiently. He now knew why Harold had suffered over showing this to him in secret, away from the bull pen. He was unwilling to give the potential prankster the satisfaction of seeing how upset he was over it. And Mike could see that Harold was indeed upset by it, by Mike's unspoken suggestion that it could be something more than some childish prank.

"Look, Harold," Mike said coaxingly, now conscious of Harold's possible state of mind and changing his tone, "It could be nothing. It's probably nothing. But if it bothers you, I don't think that there would be anything wrong with you taking it to them. Especially considering the fact that the message went so far as to mention Gregory. Okay?"

Looking somewhat mollified, Harold nodded once, twice. Mike could see he was relaxed, put at ease by someone else's apparent concern.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right. Sorry. I'm sorry, I knew shouldn't have bugged you about this. It's just you're the only one who's really made an effort to actually...really talk to me around here, you know?”

Mike could admit that Harold didn't really deserve half the shit he got while working at the firm. Louis seemed to have a particular dislike for Harold, which Mike had noted on numerous occasions and had stepped in when he had felt Louis had gone too far. But even Louis' mad dogging of Harold was apart of his supposed "act" as Pearson Hardman's associate wrangler.

The rest of the associates, though, had a habit of picking on Harold if only for the fact that he wasn't the most charismatic of people. Mike had never liked bullies and by extension couldn't stand to let people like Harold be pushed around; it stirred up bad memories, plucked at a sore nerve from childhood trauma. 

He felt he owed Harold some decency, if only to get the other man back up on his feet. And Harold could do some damn good work when left to his own devices and without Louis eyeballing him into a nerve-racked wreck of a man. Sometimes it actually made sense as to how he had graduated from Harvard—which, in of itself, was more than could be said for Mike anyway.

"Hey, Harold. You know what; you feel up to grabbing a drink sometime?"

Harold perked up this. Mike's eyes followed Harold hand as he stuffed the envelope back into his jacket pocket. The article's text remained stark, black newsprint against the faded paper.

"Yeah, Mike. I'd like that. I really would."

* * *

Mike stared at his computer screen. It had been at least twenty minutes since he had spoken to Harold, but since he had returned to his cubicle he hadn't moved an inch. Louis' work remained obstinate, an easy and readily available excuse to take his mind off the matter, but he hadn't touched it.

He slid his hands up to his face and leaned forward, resting his head in them, elbows on his desk. He couldn't get the article out of his head or the message that had been written on the back. He had managed to convince Harold more than himself as to its banality. Whoever had written it had said that Gregory had learned what "it" meant—was "it" a reference to the unsolved murders reported in the article? What was there to learn from it? What did an unsolved murder have to do with Gregory's death?

Mike let his hands drop and relinquished control to the nagging urge he had been fighting down. He opened up his browser and entered in the newspaper's name, the article's title, and printed date into the search bar. The first in the slew of results matched his query word for word; it brought him to a digital archive of the newspaper's older articles which had either been scanned in or transcribed. This one had been transcribed. He opened the webpage and scanned the article again, then searched the archive for any recent articles with the similar tagged details; "unsolved", "construction yard", "Jane Doe", "burning", and "crushed". He didn't expect the result to appear at all or be so recent, dated at the end of last year. He hovered his mouse over it and then opened it.

It was a fairly short article, published online on the anniversary of the original publication's date. No new information. _Department recalls nearly five year old cold case; no suspects or relatives of the victims have come forward to date. Detectives encourage the public to contact the department number listed below for any new leads or possible identification of the victims._

It was almost disappointing. He blankly scanned the released rough composite images of what the victims may have looked like placed at the end of the article. They might have been considered pretty, blond, but the images were digitally pasted together in a heavy way that made them look distinctly "off". Mike entered in a few more vague queries and then promptly closed the web page and browser.

He clasped his hands together, tightly lacing his fingers, and pressed his mouth to them.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Hey Mike, we need to talk. It's been a week now and you haven't come by or called or—I'm not really sure where we are right now. I mean, I know you're still dealing with what happened to your coworker. I get that. But you can't keep it in like you've been doing, it's not healthy. We don't—we don't have to talk about that, but I need for us to sit down and see where we're going. I can't just be there for you when you need me and then be left wondering how long its going to be until the next time. I don't want to put you on the spot, you know I don't like doing things like that. But you aren't really giving me much of a choice here. I'm at the point where I need some absolutes, okay? Call me back, when you get the chance. I know you're busy but, Christ, at least make some time for this, Mike."_

Mike ended the call to his voicemail, feeling ambivalent. He double-checked the lock to his bike and tucked his helmet under his arm as he headed towards the building's entrance. The lobby was heated, a welcome respite from the cold morning air. He'd have to think about buying a set of winter suits soon, scarves and gloves too.

He was fine. Jenny was getting the wrong idea; he had been numbed by Gregory's death for a while now. It was work that had probably made him seem more distant to her; he had since nearly tripled his load in the last month, even earning a grudging acknowledgment from Louis for all his effort. It was fixable. Jenny and he would talk, he'd promise to spend more time with her, things would go back to the way they were before. He was sure that they'd laugh about it. Jenny was good for that, she was a steady girl.

He brought his cell back up as he waited in the small queue that had formed in front of the turnstile. Jenny, a couple of new Trevor calls, unknown number—his eyes scanned over the endless contact log before he selected them all and deleted them. It had been a while since he had last checked his phone.

He felt his ID plucked from his pocket. Mike looked up to find Harvey not far on the other side of the turnstile, holding the card between his index and middle finger.

"Come on, it's only seven in the morning Mike. Look alive."

"I think this is the earliest I've—hey!" A couple of unhappy people jostled Mike as they scanned their own badges and passed through the lane.

"I think this is the earliest that I've ever seen you here." 

"First and last time. Get an eyeful while you can. I've got a meeting." Harvey scanned Mike's badge for him and Mike stepped through the turnstile. They both stood to the side, out of the way of the morning rush.

"Another one of Harvey's Specter's mysterious meetings—," Mike began tritely, thought better of stirring anything up so early, and then asked playfully, "For England, James?" 

"Of all the potential reservoirs and you go with 'Golden Eye'? Come on Mike. I think we both know that you can do better."

"Oh come on, it brought Bond to the nineties. What would you have gone with? 'Die Another Day'? And are we just going to forget it as a society-wide fever dream? I think I'd be okay with that."

"Okay, two words: 'Pussy Galore'. And, while I'm at it: 'Sean Connery'. " 

"'Do you expect me to talk—No I expect you to die'; yeah, I feel like I've already used that one."

"As if that were the only worthy line. Oh right, I forgot that you're about five years old, so much of the better Bonds are lost on you." 

"All I heard just now was 'Sorry Mike, I'm too old to appreciate anything after the sixties'." 

Harvey abruptly flicked the badge back to Mike which Mike just barely managed to catch with one free hand.

"See you later J.W.," Harvey replied as he sauntered away. 

"No way. After all this time I'm Leiter by now. Reliable!" Mike raised his voice, though aware that his words were failing on deaf ears, "Always unappreciated—and okay, he's gone."

Why was it that Harvey always seemed to get the last word without actually getting the last word? Mike would have to grill him on that skill, someday, perhaps even cultivate a little of it for himself. Not just anyone could exit a conversation the way Harvey had a habit of doing—Mike could certainly tell that it rubbed most people the wrong way. But they always came back in the end, smitten with either the man or his ability to get the job done. Harvey had a way of making one feel like they needed him, like he was the only person in the world capable of fixing their problem.

Mike stuffed the ID back into his pocket and headed to the elevators.

He stopped in the break room to make himself a cup of coffee. The brewer grumbled and bubbled. He dropped his hand to check his watch—seven twenty.

Had Harvey mentioned how long he was going to be out at that meeting? There was no work Mike needed to do for the senior partner, however yesterday _Jessica Pearson_ herself had invited him to meet with her, privately, around midday today.

Harvey had assured him that it was probably just his recent pro bono accumulation that had caught her discerning eye. Mike was also informed that Jessica had a habit of infrequent petting as a way of encouragement. Harvey hadn't bothered to contain his look of pride at the fact that _his_ associate had been the one deemed worthy enough for Jessica's personal touch. And it was contagious, Mike supposed that he should feel proud as well.

Still, Mike was nervous about the whole idea. His encounters with Jessica had been minimal and there was good reason for this. Fraudulent employment aside, or perhaps because of it, he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut around her; at best he might embarrass himself, at worst he'd make Harvey look bad. There was no reason to suspect that Jessica somehow knew of his secret, Harvey told him that she would've bypassed such formalities—he'd be in cuffs already.

Regardless of his reticence, it was happening, and he had dressed, hopefully well, for the occasion. And in the meantime, he'd have liked to be with Harvey; though hoping for a pep talk might have been too much. But Harvey was likely saving the day at the moment and lining the firm's coffers as he did it, and so Mike was on his own.

Until his meeting with Jessica, he was free to chose how to spend his time. There wasn't even any work left from Louis to do.

As the room filled with the smell of the fresh roast, he considered his options, and when the brewer's light flashed from red to green and his hand rested on the warm handle he started with a sudden realization.

Harvey would be out for the morning. Out of the firm entirely, leaving his office accessible and empty.

* * *

Donna was just getting up as he approached Harvey's office and she smiled familiarly at him. He greeted her and assumed he was in the clear when she brushed past him without a word. Her patient statement, as he headed to the door, momentarily torpedoed his confidence.

"Oh, Mike, didn't you know? Harvey isn't in right now. He's at a meeting."

Mike turned on his heel, lifting two "files". They were just manila folders full of blank pieces of paper. He jabbed a thumb at them.

"Putting these on his desk."

Donna was quicker than he was in realizing his error. As per her modus operandi she had extensive knowledge, often bordering on omniscient, of what Harvey was and wasn't doing—she would know that Harvey and he weren't working a case together, hadn't for a while in fact. But of all the things that she was, Donna wasn't cruel. She preferred her opponents to fold on their own, rather than have to physically twist their arm behind their back. 

Her expression and voice was a measured, pretend-innocence.

"You can go ahead and leave them on mine. I'll see that he gets it."

Mike hesitated. He held Donna's gaze for a beat and then did as he was told. Donna's smile was persistent.

"Are you busy? Why don't you join me in having some of Norma's snickerdoodles. I'm on my way over to her right now. They're absolutely to die for."

Tempting. Despite having worked at the firm for so long, Mike had never actually seen Norma in the flesh. The suggestion felt as if it were an olive branch.

"Just came to drop those off," he replied a little too quickly. He was painfully aware of how stilted his responses had been so far. His mouth felt dry.

They exchanged a few more words and then, much to his surprise, Donna released him without further fight.

He idled around for a bit, until he was certain that she had disappeared down the hallway, and then entered the office.

Mike made a beeline for Harvey's desk. While sitting, he took a moment to check to see if anyone had noticed him. It was relatively empty outside the office. Those that were up and about didn't bother to spare a glance in his direction.

Harvey's desk was clear of clutter save for his laptop—password protected, Mike would bet his tie on it—a few (somehow) expensive looking pens, and glass paper weights. Seeing the immediate lack of paper and envelopes, Mike felt a lick of uncertainty. This was insane. He was going to get himself fired. And for what? He wasn't entirely sure that he knew what he was looking for.

A few seconds spent looking through the drawers had turned up nothing substantial. One of them was locked with no obvious indication as to where a key might be. Minutes passed; Mike still came up empty handed. Sweat had begun to gather on the back of his neck. Harvey's desk didn't resemble his in the slightest, piled messily with folders and paper and leaking secrets. There were no odds or ends here. There was hardly anything to look through in the first place. Nothing but sleek lines, memorabilia of unimaginable worth, and no wasted space.

Mike threw a glance to the side and found the steel trash can disappointingly empty. He found the wall of records, wondered briefly about looking through them, and then shied from the hopelessness the thought incurred. He scanned the rest of the office, growing aware of how much time he had wasted. It would take too long to look through all the A4 binders that were lined up on the low shelves below the windows. He was done and his time was up, and after all that fevered rush of a search he had nothing to show for it.

And he knew Donna was there before he lifted his eyes to find her standing in the office's doorway.

He found himself speechless at her look of hurt. She had given him a chance to head back to the bull pen after they had spoken, and he had taken advantage of it. It was a price he had been willing to pay. Though a small part of him felt much like a guilty schoolboy under her gaze, he also felt the stirrings of resentment. She and Harvey were now becoming one and the same in his mind—they were both hiding something, and both seemed to think that he was incapable of handling what ever it was.

And damned if it had to do with him? He felt sick with the thought.

He ended up telling her everything.

He hadn't initially meant to, but once he started he found the torrential pour of it leaving his chest too difficult to plug up. With the way the words came out so easy, he considered that it wouldn't have taken very much to get him to talk in the first place. In a manner of speaking, it was a relief to finally commit to his suspicions aloud. Maybe Jenny had been right after all.

It wasn't for lack of want that he hadn't told Jenny or his grandmother or Rachel about any of it. He was only made reluctant of potentially frightening them with what might have been, at best, delusions. They were better left out of it until he could get something solid under his hands and could actually compose his thoughts into something that sounded less insane, something that couldn't be blamed away on stress or Gregory's death.

He had long guessed that Donna and Harvey's closeness had meant that she was privy to whatever it was that was going on. Harvey trusted her enough to manage every facet of his life, public and private, probably more than Mike would ever know. And Harvey's trust didn't come cheap. Harvey would've told Donna—Mike felt this strongly enough that he was able to speak without fearing that he sounded out of his mind to her.

This feeling was only strengthened when she never interrupted him or betrayed any emotion to his words. The resentment bubbled again, squeezing his chest.

The phone call, Harvey canceling the night before Gregory's death, the letter Harold received, the detective's interest in Harvey; everything.

They were sitting side-by-side on the couch when Mike finally finished. He worked his throat and clasped his hands.

"So there you have it." Mike tried to smile, forced it instead. "Sorry about going behind your back."

Donna averted her eyes. A peal of anxiousness licked through Mike. What was she going to do now? Tell Harvey? His clasped hands wound tighter. Or would she lie and put on that debutante smile, the one she donned so effortlessly, and look him in the eye and _lie_ to him, just as Harvey had time and time again?

"No, no—I'm the one who should apologize, Mike," she began, the words seemed to give her trouble to say. She uncharacteristically struggled over them. "Harvey didn't—I should have spoken up for you, when I had the chance."

“He really likes you Mike,” she finally said, without looking at him.

Mike suddenly felt like leaving Donna on the couch, gain some control for once after being jerked around by the people he had almost considered something close to friends. Donna's inability to face him rooted him there. He wanted her to admit to everything.

"That's great.” Mike was careful to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "That's really great. He likes me so much that he doesn't trust me."

Donna's eyes finally met his. Her expression was either of mock or genuine surprise—he could never be certain with her. 

“No, he didn't want to tell you what was going on because he cares about you.”

Mike laughed under his breath. Her face grew stoic. Surely she must have known that he was intent to catch her in a lie again. Did she really think that little of him, to believe something so preposterous? Harvey didn't _care_ ; it wasn't in his nature. And Harvey most certainly didn't care about him in such a way, to devote so much time and effort into keeping him out of the loop simply because he "liked" him. The truth, however much it may have hurt, would have been preferable compared to the mental picture of a weakened Harvey that Donna painted for Mike; it bordered on offensive.

“So I'll be the one to tell you everything you want to know, Mike. That's what you want, isn't it? Answers? That's why you came here today.”

“What it's that easy?” Mike demanded, upset. “I could've just _asked_ you what was going on?”

“No, you couldn't have. I'm only deciding to do this now because I'm worried about him and now I think he made the wrong call. All this time, I've been respecting his wishes, trusting his judgment. But after everything that's happened and Gregory—this is for Harvey's best interest as much as you can take it to be about yours.” 

She sounded affronted, as though she were protecting herself from Mike's accusatory language. Mike took her defensive response, perhaps the only way he could have in that moment, as a small victory. Part of him felt reluctant to push her any further. He wasn't absolutely sure she would actually tell him the entire truth but he could see the physical toll that the conversation was starting to take on her. Likely despising the hypocrisy of it, her going behind Harvey's back and against his so-called decision would only be done if it were necessary. He at least believed her in that Harvey would probably not like what she was about to tell him next.

Donna folded her arms and extended her fingers out before laying them back along the curve of her upper arm:

"So, what do you want to start with?"

It was a generous way to begin the conversation, Mike knew that she was intentionally making him feel like he had some say over where it was all going—it was always something. He had grown wise to Donna and Harvey's tricks; they had trained the "puppy" well.

He mirrored Donna's movements, though leaned back against the couch. Donna didn't seem worried that Harvey might burst in at any moment, she wasn't expecting him back for however long Mike might feel intent to talk, which meant that the meeting Harvey had said he had this morning was possibly not a business engagement. He was tempted to ask about it but instead decided to settle.

"Let's start from the beginning."

And of course Donna would have been ready for the ominous statement. She only took a moment to gather her thoughts before she began.

“For as long as I've known him, Harvey takes things in without telling anyone. He shoulders it alone and he lets it build inside him until he's so angry that he doesn't make rational decisions. He doesn't like to be indebted to anyone, so he doesn't lay his problems on anyone else. He likes to deal with things on his own. Working at the DA's office nearly destroyed him; every single day I was worried that I'd watch him crash and burn. I was glad when we left—it was good for Harvey.

When Harvey came here and got junior partner, one of his very first cases was a man who wanted to file a suit against a major toy company. It was clear that a basic settlement offered by the company wasn't what he was after—he wanted to make the them really hurt financially. Fresh from the DA, Harvey was eager and willing. And it seemed, at the time, like a legitimate claim. He checked out through all the usual safeguards and I vetted the guy myself. Derrick Brennan; he claimed that his daughter had been irreparably injured while playing with the company's defective products. He had said he had proof of other similar cases as well, which was true, there were. It was straightforward enough. But Harvey worked the case night and day and couldn't make any headway. Things weren't lining up and there started to be some discrepancies in the actual evidence and what Brennan was telling Harvey.

Harvey ended up looking deeper into Brennan, without Brennan knowing, and he found out the guy had been making it all up from the start."

"I thought he had checked out?" Mike interjected. He was starting to get impatient. What did any of this have to do with a murder? The phone call? Harold's letter?

"He did. At least using conventional means. Harvey still had some favors from the DA that he managed to pull, favors that weren't, strictly speaking, legal. But Harvey had thought that Brennan had good reason to keep secrets from him. He was still convinced that there was a case there.

When confronted Brennan apparently broke down and confessed that he had been extraneously involved in illegal activities, more specifically he had a low rank in a Russian _Bratva_ out of Brighton Beach for a handful of years. Apparently, he had been working, on-and-off as one of their bookies for quite some time. But, like most men, he had his addictions; and he ended up borrowing and owing people from his own group quite a bit of money. Instead of making a deal to get into a witness protection program, he had decided to put up a fake lawsuit to try to con some money and pay off his debts.

He thought Harvey would make it work for him, but after hearing the truth Harvey refused any further involvement. He was furious. He recommended that Brennan get in touch with federal agents or get his wife and kid out of New York as fast as he could. He dropped the case, officially citing lack of evidence."

Months after the whole ordeal, Harvey kept getting phone calls from the guy. Brennan begged for Harvey's help each time. After a while, they stopped. The lawsuit had been swept under the rug, so to speak. Harvey paid off all the court fees out of his own pocket; he worked hard to keep the whole thing quiet."

“The call Harvey got,” Mike blurted out.

“So much time had passed, it was a shock when Harvey was contacted by him again. He didn't tell me what they talked about but he immediately went to the police right after, so whatever it was that Brennan had said to him Harvey felt it was worth it bringing it to their attention.”

Mike straightened up in his seat. "That's why the detectives wanted to sidle up to him more? He told them about Brennan's connections to the mob?"

Donna paused. He could see her juggling the pros and cons of continuing the conversation. Mike had crowded her too far in for her to turn back.

“Harvey didn't receive any more calls after that initial one you saw him take. But after that day, he kept getting these unaddressed envelopes. They were everywhere. And they all had news-clippings of that murder, the same one you told me Harold got, and cryptic messages. We had no doubt that Brennan was the one sending them. But we had no idea how he was getting them into the firm. Pretty soon Harvey started finding them in his personal mail too."

"Wait, so you mean to tell me the guy bought a stack of newspapers just so he could cut out that particular case? So he could send them all to Harvey? But why?"

"Brennan had mentioned that he had a family, that he had been worried about their safety. We took it to mean that he was letting us know that the unidentified victims were his wife and daughter, that they had been collateral for the funds that he had been unable to supply."

"And?" Mike said uneasily, "Were they?"

Donna shrugged. "We were never sure, the detectives couldn't come up with anything conclusive. Brennan certainly implied that this was the case. But he wasn't in his right mind either, sending all those letter letters, saying all those things. Harvey wasn't as concerned as he perhaps should have been. He considered Brennan harmless, angry, but incapable of actually acting on his rage.

But when Gregory died, when he was murdered, it changed everything. Brennan became the lead suspect, but because of his Brighton connections the detectives were interested in keeping the whole thing hush hush. Harvey made me swear to keep quiet and I told him he was making a huge mistake. He started to stonewall the detectives, not cooperate with the investigation. The more time passed, the more he decided to take the whole burden of it on himself, and the more he stopped listening to me. Ultimately, he thought that having the detectives around would only provoke Brennan further.”

So Harvey blamed himself for Gregory's death, which Mike thought was understandable. It would have been an unbearable thought for Harvey; a "problem" of his making that couldn't be fixed. The unfamiliar chasm that had formed between them had then been done on purpose. Was he then more ashamed than he was guilty? Ashamed that he had thought he had known what kind of man Brennan was, what kind of things he was capable of, and had been wrong? Mike thought it silly, Harvey acting out akin to a petulant child, hiding something so huge out of fear of not being able to "win" this one on his own and without the help of others; fearing looking weak to those around him. That was what Donna was getting at, wasn't it?

“You understand now, don't you Mike? Harvey didn't want you to know about any of this, he thought it was better to keep you ignorant, and by extension then safe and out of Brennan's line of fire.”

"But he could tell you, couldn't he? And aren't you two practically married?” he replied, unable to hold back much his ire from making the words sound callous. In spite everything she had just told him, Donna smiled. It wasn't pleasant.

"We know now that Gregory's death means that no one at the firm is safe. He and Harold, they had no prior knowledge of the case, no close ties to Harvey. If Brennan is the one behind it all, then he has no preference other than making Harvey feel as though the deaths are all his doing. We can only assume that Brennan is intent on forcing Harvey to make amends for dropping the case."

"Well, at least we have motive."

Mike put his fingers to his temple and pressed them hard against the building pressure there. Would he be a fool for taking everything she said at face value? It all seemed so outlandish and Donna was a damn good liar. But to put so much effort into diverting his attention elsewhere, into fashioning a lie that could have been simpler—never mind Donna, he wanted to hear this all straight from Harvey's mouth.

“Look Mike. I'm not going make you sign anything, or plead for your discretion—"

"He should have told me," Mike bit back. "He told you, and he should have told me."

Donna unfolded her arms and slung one over the back of Harvey's couch. She was wearing a green satin halter dress, something that showed off her shoulders and the pale skin of the dip of her upper torso. She regarded him with a strange look.

“Mike, I want you to listen to me very carefully. There will be time to feel betrayed and angry, but it can't be now. The detectives are worried that if they release any of what I just told you, it may cause a panic at the firm and make it more difficult to figure out what Brennan's next move might be."

"You want me to sit on this, you want me to sit on all of what you just told me?" Mike said, motioning as though it were right beneath their feet. "I just want to be clear that that's what you're about to tell me to do."

"Harvey trusts you. And I know that might be hard for you to believe right now but don't forget the circumstances for you being here. It wasn't a mistake. Harvey _chose_ you. Remember? And he risked everything, still is risking everything, to keep you here. Do you understand that that's just not something Harvey does without good reason; trust a man he's only dealt about twenty minutes with? After everything he's been through?"

Was Donna threatening him? No, that wasn't it. Mike did get the distinct impression that, despite her calm exterior, she was growing wary of his reaction so far and of what he might do with the potent information. But she wasn't stupid; it would prove a monumental loss on both sides if his lack of a law degree were ever dredged up and brought before the right people. So it wasn't so much a ploy to guilt him into silence as it was an appeal to emotion. He had essentially given Harvey and she no other choice but to trust in him, in his abilities to play his role without drawing suspicion and that he wouldn't try to save his own skin. She was simply reminding him of this fact, and asking for him to do the same for them in return.

Mike absently fingered his watch.

"Alright. I won't say anything."

Donna exhaled as though he had just agreed to a legally binding agreement and she was relieved that her needling had been kept at a minimum.

"Does Jessica—," Mike stopped mid-sentence, stomach dropping. _Jessica_. He looked at his watch; two minutes late.

"Everything alright Mike?" Donna inquired as Mike, unthinking, abruptly rose, made as if to turn towards the door and then, catching himself, faced her again. Does Jessica know about any of this? was what he had wanted to ask. He was even more encouraged to continue the thought, considering that he was about to go and speak to the woman alone. Though, it was likely that if Jessica did know anything there was no guarantee that she'd be as willing to talk to him about it as Donna had been.

"Listen, I forgot—I have a meeting with Jessica."

"Just the two of you? Our Mike's moving up in the firm already," Donna said.

"You already knew I had a meeting with her," Mike returned, not questioning, not at all surprised.

Donna did a little shrug. "Harvey was like that, you know."

"What, late for all his meetings? He still is you know."

"A fast learner." Donna corrected, though her lips quirked upward.

Mike found her flattery disingenuous, like she was coddling him only to keep him quiet. For all her smoke and mirrors she was just like everyone else; she couldn't predict every single outcome with reasonable assurance so she was frightened of what he might do. It was easy to be awed by her, as green as he had been when he had first started working at the firm and see her as someone who had his best interest in mind. There was no doubt that her loyalty lied solely with Harvey, and she didn't hide this fact. She had already admitted that everything she had told him was for Harvey's sake.

He wondered if she would ever see him as anything more than Harvey's associate, anything more than an extension of Harvey himself.

"I should get going."

"Mike?"

Mike paused on his way to the door, but only turned halfway. Donna was now leaning into the couch, legs crossed. Her smile was gone.

"You ever have any more questions, please don't hesitate to ask."

* * *

He had been in Jessica's office maybe three times since he had come to Pearson Hardman, always accompanied by Harvey, never alone. He had spoken to Jessica herself plenty of times; Jessica didn't hide away in her office or sit and wait for problems to crawl or barrel through her door. She wasn't afraid of meeting them head on, so it was no wonder most of her daily traversing eventually brought her to Harvey's office.

"Good work on Sandoval."

Mike blinked slowly. It was difficult to drag his thoughts away from Brennan and Harvey and the letter Harold had received. Work, he was here about work. The case itself had been fairly cut and dry; he could've won it with his hands under his ass. He would've said as much but here was Jessica, across the glass desk, waiting to see how he would respond to her praise. He would need to be, above all things, humble in her presence. Neither of them, he suspected as much, had time for verbal diarrhea.

"Thanks," is all Mike said.

Jessica inclined her head. She then opened a maroon file on her desk and perused it for a while before she spoke again.

"Quite the ratio you've started to build; two solid wins on your own already. That's rare for a first year associate. And they were both fairly visible pro bono work, good publicity for the firm."

Mike forwent another brief and monotone "thank you" and instead simply nodded.

There was a clock in Jessica's office, a big white one minimalist one that didn't audibly tick which Mike was intensely thankful for. It had only been about five minutes since he had rushed in panting and Jessica, seemingly unperturbed by his ruffled appearance and late arrival, invited him to take a seat. He was more than ready to leave now.

"Have you always wanted to be a lawyer Mike?"

Mike dipped his chin and adjusted his tie. "I've always wanted to help people who couldn't help themselves."

Jessica, eyes downcast and on the file on her desk again, smiled to herself as though enjoying some private joke.

"That's good. Noble. First years are usually full of cookie cutter dreams like that, but you've broken the mold and caught my eye. That's a good thing, Mike Ross."'

"So I've been told," Mike replied recalling Harvey's assurances.

Had Harvey sat in this very chair and heard the same thing once? Mike felt a warm curl of satisfaction his chest overshadow the unease he had felt start to grow since speaking to Donna. Jessica Pearson herself was praising his work. And even disregarding the fact that it was a freaking name partner that had just verbally complemented him, it was the validation of his efforts and his intelligence that excited him most. He realized, in that moment, just how much he craved it.

Harvey had recently made a noticeable effort to appear not to care about any of Mike's recent work, at least not in an overtly congratulatory way. Harvey treated every victory of Mike's as something expected of a Harvard graduate. But Mike wasn't a Harvard graduate, and this was something that Harvey knew. Harvey _knew_ Mike was in fact scraping by only the skin of his teeth, filling his head to bursting with law books every night to make up for the three years of law school he had torpedoed into the ground thanks to a stupid mistake; never mind his total lack of court experience.

Jessica's praise made him feel pliant and malleable and he relaxed into it, even if it was probably exactly what she wanted.

Unexpectedly; "Just remember that not everyone's worth saving."

The unease flooded back. Mike only strained a smile in response.

* * *

The walls of his cubicle seemed to close in on him, giving him the distinct, unpleasant sensation of being trapped. He drowned out the clacking keyboards and ringing phones in the bull pen with loud music, pushing the ear buds in harder than they needed to be. When that didn't work, he turned his attention to the work between his hands but found it a garbled mess of black type and splashes of highlighter marks.

The detectives were banking on Brennan trying to kill again, there was no doubt about this in Mike's mind. Based on what little Donna had revealed, Mike posited that they wanted Brennan to feel like he had free reign and encourage more of his activity—the more active he was, the more likely he'd slip up and make a mistake. So what did this mean for the hundred something employees that worked at the firm? Just how much were they all at risk?

Mike whipped out his phone. The pounding in his temple returned as the music continued to blare in his ears. He flicked through his contacts; Trevor, Jenny, Grammy. As Harvey Specter's associate, he had unwittingly put them in danger. The psycho who killed Gregory, this Derrick Brennan, there was no telling how far he was willing to go. How many people he would be willing to cut through in order to get to Harvey. If Donna's story was true, then reason had long been lost to such a man. Brennan was dangerous; understanding this frightened Mike.

His knee bounced and he pocketed the phone and passed a hand across his face. He then looked down to find the jumbled mess of text still there. He couldn't focus. He couldn't think about work at a time like this. Mike couldn't fathom out how it was that Donna was able to, had been able to, know all of this and yet do nothing about it. She had acted like everything was normal, like there wasn't a man out for Harvey's blood on the loose. But to Mike, it was like a timer had been set, steadily counting to down to someone's inevitable demise.

Mike felt his chest growing tighter by the second. He need something—needed some fresh air or something.

Rachel was suddenly before him, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Mike stared at her, confused, and the plopped out the ear buds from their tight fit.

"Mike are you okay? You look a little pale."

"Fine. All good. Everything's fine," Mike tried for nonchalant and failed miserably, sounding like he was choking back something. 

"Going home early?" he asked quickly just as she was about to open her mouth again.

Rachel glanced down at the bag on her shoulder, shrugged it, and then tried for a smile, failing as badly as Mike had at appearing unperturbed.

"Yeah, something like that. Not a lot of work left today."

She threw a thinly veiled glance over at Gregory's desk.

"You busy? Drinks?"

The "no" lingered on the tip of Mike's tongue, thoughtless and mechanical. He never told her about Jenny did he? He should have, right when Jenny and he started seeing each other after Trevor had left. He _should_ have. There had been ample time to, far too many moments to count where he could've have told her but hadn't. What was stopping him?

Rachel had impressed on him time and time again that she didn't date coworkers. And yet, before Jenny and he had rekindled their relationship, Rachel and he had begun to gravitate in a way that Mike wasn't fooled by. He had been caught when Jenny had come back to him. He had danced on the line between moving on from what he had wanted with Jenny and pushing through the crumbling wall between him and Rachel.

"I probably shouldn't—got some work. You know. Harvey," Mike said awkwardly but Rachel saved him further struggle by starting to head to the elevator.

"Don't worry about it. See you later then?"

Before he could raise a hand, she was already gone. His knee continued to bounce and he clutched the ear buds tightly in his fist.

He grabbed his messenger bag and followed her.

* * *

The bar was crowded and noisy. There should have been some security in it, being surrounded on all sides by potential witnesses.

Mike found he couldn't stand it.

He covertly glanced at a man sitting two seats from him.

Every time the door jingled, announcing a new patron, he had to crane his head to look. It was ridiculous; he didn't even know what Brennan looked like. But paranoia had followed him from Pearson Hardman to the bar and made him feel exposed.

“—not particularly interesting, is it?”

“What?”

“I said; me going on about the Time's food column's recommendations is not particularly interesting, is it?”

"No, yeah, I think that one place sounds great. Le Beardin? We should totally go."

"Le Bernardin," Rachel replied, not admonishing, simply amused.

Mike toasted her with his beer and took a drink.

"As long they don't serve hotly debated menu items, I'm up for it. Thanks for letting me know about the duck embryos by the way."

Rachel returned his toast, but didn't drink. "Well, I was just saying before that haute cuisine isn't really my thing these days."

"Oh. Well, I'll drink to that too," Mike replied stiltedly. He hid the embarrassment from potentially showing on his face by turning away to take a much longer swig from his bottle.

"Hey, Mike it's fine. Really, I get it. This was just an excuse to get out of the building, right? That's why I left early too. I was suffocating in there today.”

“Louis is probably wondering where we are,” Mike pointed out.

“Louis can wonder about whatever he wants. I needed a drink.”

She held up her own bottle, coaxing another toast and Mike complied.

“We should have invited him,” Mike said somberly after drinking. “It would have been the right thing. Man's wound tight. Letting loose just once would probably do him a world of good.”

Rachel shot him a doubtful look.

“Oh come on, don't tell me you wouldn't want to get in on that?”

“I could probably go my whole life and never ever want 'to get in on that', Mike.”

Rachel patted Mike's hand in an assuring way as she said this and the touch lingered. Her hesitation didn't escape Mike's notice and he turned his hand over so that he was gently holding hers. She felt good, soft and slender; he stopped himself just short of rubbing his thumb across the top of the skin there. It was an unthinking gesture, instinctive. When she didn't immediately draw her hand out of his grasp, he was encouraged to meet her eyes.

Her smile wavered for a split-second then returned, warm. But there was something else there too, namely in her expression; an openness to what he was doing, an affirmation. Like she welcomed the barrier slowly being broken down between the two of them.

Mike swallowed. She squeezed his hand and then slipped hers away.

A short period of silence settled over them. Eventually, over the noise of clinking plates and glasses and jabbering, Rachel spoke. 

“Did something happen between you and Harvey?”

Mike had dreaded the question since they had left Pearson Hardman. He pushed his bottle around. He should have expected that Harvey would pop up, one way or another. Like always.

Now thinking of him, Mike realized Harvey would have come back from this morning's meeting by now. He was going to have to speak to Harvey again and, sooner rather than later, he would have to make the decision whether or not to let Harvey know that he knew about Brennan. Of course, he had only promised Donna that he wouldn't spread the news around the bull pen—confronting Harvey was another matter entirely. There were going to be new cases, and Harvey still supervised all his work. And eventually they would be in a room alone together. Harvey couldn't avoid him forever.

He started tapping the table with his bottle, eyes trained on the rows of liquor.

“Funny how his name always seems to come up when we're together.”

Tentative, “Is that why you seemed so upset?”

“Look, I really don't want to talk about him.”

He felt Rachel bodily turn towards him and rest a hand on his shoulder. Questioning her movements, he stared at her. She opened her mouth but the silence held.

Then, “Okay. We don't have to talk about him.”

“Rachel...”

He found himself unable to move when she advanced towards him. Her pretty eyes were hopeful, searching his face for some indication that he didn't want her to go further. But he didn't say anything, even though he knew he could have stopped her. They were both just buzzed, he knew this—he was still capable of rational thought. He knew exactly what he was doing and what he was risking by doing it.

He knew it was selfish but, just for a moment, she had given him the opportunity to focus on her and nothing else. He desperately wanted it—wanted _her_.

Her breath was warm on his skin and he let her kiss him. He lifted up a hand to her neck, thumb brushing her jaw, and she leaned into it perfectly. Jesus he wanted her. They could leave the bar if they wanted to, head to either his place or hers. Wake up sharing each others warmth. If she offered, he didn't doubt that he would go without much hesitation.

Please say it, he thought eagerly, almost begged. But once she drew back, she was quiet, her expression lost. A sense of urgency visited him at the sight. And then Jenny's voicemail started up again in his head, the sound of her voice so clear and sad.

His hand dropped from Rachel's face like a dead weight.

“Mike.”

“I shouldn't,” he mumbled, shamed that he was incapable of meeting her eyes.

She didn't answer him right away. Instead, she retreated and regarded the bar before them.

“It's alright, I understand.” But perhaps didn't. And how could she?

They finished their beers in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because a new character in season four has the last name "Malone", I've changed the last name here to "Brennan".


	6. Chapter 6

Harold and Kyle went missing three days later.

Their disappearance sparked the beginnings of panic Donna had warned about and sent an uneasy ripple across every rank of the firm's employees. To continue working, despite of all this, was held as a tentative priority by all. But the climate became intolerable when it was leaked to the media that foul play was a likely cause.

The new development resulted in somewhat devastating publicity. Pearson Hardman skidded to an effective halt—all cases that could be suspended were put on hold, pending the completion of the investigation. Protecting the firm's image of longevity proved to be a monumental task; a rash of jumpy and opportunistic clients immediately expressed their interest in renegotiating lower retainer fees. Jessica had her hands full.

And eventually, on the recommendation of the detectives, Jessica and the board of partners unanimously concluded that all non-integral Pearson Hardman employees should be sent home, in order to restrict the flow through the building. This included, of course, all first year associates.

But the feeling of malaise lingered; after all, Kyle and Harold had simply vanished right under everyone's noses. What was stopping the kidnapper, now widely agreed upon to be Gregory's murderer, from coming to their own homes? There were furtive conversations had by many people who seriously considered the likelihood of the culprit being a Pearson Hardman employee.

Mike paid the internal murmurings little notice. He went about his business like an automaton but found it much more difficult to repeat the process mentally. It proved an impossible task to forget that Harold had come to him first, out of everyone at the firm, for help. And knowing this fact had a strange effect over Mike.

Over beer and peach cosomos, Harold had showered him with meandering tales and boring tidbits from Harvard and growing up and the etymology of his surname. Mike, while sympathetic, had only thought about rendering Harold inarticulately drunk. It had baffled him, the way that Harold desperately latched on to him, still practically a stranger, and expected emotional reciprocation of the same magnitude. Harold probably would have still ended up doing most of the talking anyway.

It made him physically sick, now, thinking about Harold. It made him sick thinking about the sloppy way Harold had spilled his personal woes and worries. He felt sick recalling the way Harold had so easily, so unthinkingly, admitted that he considered Mike to be one of his only friends at Pearson Hardman.

Mike wished that Harold hadn't told him any of that, wished every second that he had reneged on his offer.

The day before the temporary closure had the remaining employees collecting their things. A lot of them were expected, Mike included, to be doing the remainder of their busy-work from home; no restrictions where placed on company emails after all. For the present time, anyway, a deadline of three-o-clock hung over everyone's heads.

Mike collapsed in his chair and scooted himself forward to paw at the folders on his desk. He briefly scanned the contents of one before passing a hand across his face. Pressure started to build behind his eyes. He had been popping over-the-counter ibuprofen like candy since that morning. A rattle of pills every hour or so and he was pushing the dosage limits.

Three pro bono cases, all _his_ and all now frozen thanks to the closure. Two out of the three of his clients were, understandably, seeking new counsel. They would surely be sniffed out by the circling, rival firms who kept very close watch on Pearson Hardman's troubles. With the completion of all three cases Mike would've exceeded the pro bono target for the year, landing himself once more in the favor of Jessica and making his name a separate entity from Harvey's.

Mike knew there was no need to stay at the firm and run out the clock when there was nothing for him to do. But when he thought of being alone in his apartment in the middle of the day, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for the other shoe to drop, his chest grew tight. He wondered if he could convince his landlord to change his door's lock, considering the circumstances.

The bull pen was nearly empty by now, apart from a few stragglers. He was determined to set his mind to a task, to keep from thinking too deeply on the fates of Harold or Kyle, and started to pack his bag.

"Mike Ross."

Mike gave pause at the familiar voice and looked up. Detective Langely had his hands clasped, his elbows resting on the neighboring cubicle wall. Despite feeling far from it, Mike was genial to him.

“Detective.”

"I was just checking in with Jessica. You know, this won't be for more than a couple of days,” Langely said in reference to the closure. “You should all be able to get back to work like nothing ever happened, soon enough.”

“Hey, more sleep for me, right? Do you mind if I—?” 

Mike indicated that he'd rather continue packing and the detective shrugged. But Mike's cue to end the conversation was either lost on or ignored by the other man who watched Mike like he was trying to figure out something to say that would draw something substantial from him. Mike could see the look from the corner of his eye and felt a flag of irritation. The detective fiddled with the wedding band on his finger.

“You know, I never got that coffee with you Mike.”

“Nothing new to say since we last spoke.”

”That so? You know who did contact me?” The detective paused, though Mike didn't get the impression that he was legitimately waiting for him answer him.

”Harold Gunderson.” Again, he didn't wait for a response from Mike. “You want to know why he did that?”

Mike briefly met the detective's eyes but kept his hands moving, picking up the pace.

”On your recommendation, Mike.”

”Yeah, I told him to talk to you. Don't you think it would have been a little redundant for me to go to you with the same information he told me he was going to tell you?”

Langley repetitively slipped his ring on and off his finger. When he spoke again, he indicated to Mike with his chin.

“Mike, you spoken to Harvey recently?”

“Harvey and I haven't talked about anything other than work.”

“That's surprising.”

Mike paused his work, then, “Is it? You do know that he's my boss, right?”

"Oh sure. Just, you know, he seems to have a bit of a soft spot for you."

Mike forcibly zipped his messenger bag back up and didn't return the detective's smile.

"News to me."

"Yeah? When I told him we had talked to you that one time, he got pretty pissed off. And man I mean he really flew off the handle. He told me never to contact you again or he wouldn't even think about talking to us anymore. What could that have been about?"

Mike didn't say anything. The detective came over to Mike's cubicle and forced eye-contact with him. Mike met the detective's look, though uneasily.

”Look Mike. You ever feel like my card is starting to burn a hole in your pocket, don't hesitate to act on it before it turns into a full blown wildfire. You understand?”

The detective held Mike there until some unspoken agreement to comply had showed on Mike's face and then finally backed off. Mike watched him take the long walk down the hall leading away from the bull pen before sitting back down.

His hand shook as he took the travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket and knocked back four orange pills.

* * *

He had pushed his coffee table aside and made a circle of work on the floor around him. His cheap laptop hummed nearby, about twenty non-work related tabs opened. He had done a lot of pacing since getting home. At least he had shed his suit, hurriedly undoing the tie at his neck like it had been strangling him.

Dinner was lonely, some beer and Thai takeout; lots of peanut sauce and spring rolls—Jenny's favorite. Since leaving the voice mail, she had refused to meet with him unless it was to seriously discuss where their relationship was going. He never expected to have her door slammed in his face but he found, worryingly, it had bothered him less that it would have months ago.

Harvey hadn't spoken to him since last week. No doubt the detectives were hammering him for his cooperation. But Mike wasn't sure that they were getting anywhere with Harvey, after the prodding Mike had received in the bull pen that morning. It was hard to fight his admiration towards the way Harvey refused to be hounded into corners.

The subject of Derrick Brennan had never actually been broached between them. For all his big talk, and despite the curious, prickling urge to be the one to unsettle Harvey for once, Mike had ultimately kept his conversation with Donna to himself. None the wiser, Harvey continued on as he usually would. It bothered Mike, at first, the way their rapid-fire exchanges had started back up again like nothing had changed.

But soon he found that it was easy to want to settle back into something predictable, something routine and familiar. Keeping up with Harvey's wit and retorts kept Mike's mind off of corpses and featureless, charred faces. So he scrounged up any excuse for them to be together, work-related or not. It hadn't ever occurred to him that it was in anyway odd that he sought out Harvey over Rachel or Jenny. It seemed, to him, Harvey was the least complicated option.

Jenny wouldn't have him until he was ready to do something he was now dreading. Rachel had started to keep her distance again and was taking a much-deserved holiday with her family. And Grammy, _Christ_ , he didn't want to bring any of this to her.

Mike set about getting some work done as he picked at his leftovers. But it soon became clear to him that, at least for tonight, he wasn't going to make any significant progress. Lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling while trying to will himself to sleep would probably be easier.

Chewing on a chopstick, he reorganized everything in order of importance, anticipating to try again for the morning. He went through the stack of folders and documents a second time, making sure everything was there.

A final check found that he was missing a case report that he had been using for personal reference. He deposited the chopstick into one of the empty takeout boxes. He had saved copies of most things that crossed his desk to his laptop. No such luck for the missing report, however, after a careful search.

He racked his brain. In his hurry to pack at his cubicle, it could have slipped out of its folder. Mike checked his watch while standing, no thought given to the papers he displaced. He wagered that it would be easier to return to Person Hardman now to look for it, rather than during the day tomorrow.

Mike only had enough sense to grab his bike helmet, ID and wallet before he left, only faintly acknowledging that he didn't really need the report and that he would have taken any excuse to get out of the quiet apartment.

* * *

The building was about as empty as he had expected it to be. He only just managed to get past the antsy security guard by exaggeratedly flashing his ID and name dropping Harvey about several hundred times. Mike couldn't blame him for being through.

Mike scanned the rows of shadowed rooms. Only a few of the overhead lights remained on for the employees who hadn't left as of yet. He wasn't unused to the sight of the floor at such a late hour, but the recent events turned the atmosphere sinister. Gooseflesh rose on his arms during his quiet trek to the bull pen.

He found the report in front of his cubicle, a shoe print marring the front page but none the worse for wear. He left it on his desk for when he came back. 

Only the desk lamp was on in Harvey's office. The image Mike had of Harvey still working, jacket gone and shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, was replaced with an empty desk and chair. He didn't bother going in but he did linger, reluctant to leave. There was nothing to go back to. And really he, truthfully, felt more at home at Pearson Hardman than he did back at his apartment.

He fell into Donna's chair and examined a mug full of pens. He wondered if he should leave a note that he had been there. Would it even get to Harvey? He pictured Donna staring at him, leaning into the couch in Harvey's office, looking fiercely protective. How vehemently she spoke of her loyalty to Harvey, the way she faltered at his insistence to know the truth.

Kyle and Harold had only just recently occupied his thoughts. Before that, he had been preoccupied with what Donna had told him about Harvey. Specifically, the lengths she had said Harvey had gone to protect him. He hadn't believed her, partly because he had still been convinced that she was bending the truth for her own means. But the time spent since then made him doubt this. With Derrick Brennan and Harvey's history now all but confirmed, Mike couldn't help but wonder if the rest of it were true. He wasn't sure how it made him feel. Vindicated, he supposed, after all this time. He only wanted to hear Harvey say it; say, after all this time, that he cared about him. Maybe that was the real reason he had wanted to come to Pearson Hardman tonight.

A muffled conversation jolted him out of his thoughts. He strained to hear but couldn't make out who it was even as the voices rose in volume as they drew closer. He ducked down under Donna's desk. God forbid it turned out to be Louis and Jessica, though he was well aware his luck was about that bad.

“You always try to handle things yourself, Harvey. When are you going to realize that that isn't always enough? Time and time again it comes back to bite you in the ass.”

Jessica and Harvey. Mike curled up further under the desk.

“Goddamn it, Jessica, we've been over this already.”

“Watch your tone.”

The fierceness of her warning induced a cringe from Mike.

A pause, then, “Look, I meant—I appreciate the concern.”

“Well fantastic,” Jessica replied. “Then you'll be speaking to those detectives just like I asked you to.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves—”

“Harvey, how many more 'top stories' do you want? One associate dead, two missing. Jesus. The publicity is making all of our benefactors nervous. And all this is for what, exactly? To keep your name clean?”

"Don't make this about me Jessica. What more could I possibly give them? I told you, like I told them—I don't know anything. Their incompetence is the reason for all this and it's bullshit if they say otherwise. And you know what, it's bullshit if anyone says otherwise. The idiots have no idea what they're doing.”

“So, what, you're going to refuse to contribute to the investigation?” Jessica shot back. “I don't think I need to remind you that Brennan was _your_ case and he's after _you_. So yeah, forgive me if I make this about _you_.”

Mike heard them stop in front of Donna's desk. He waited to hear Harvey to fire back but Jessica had started back up again.

“Listen to me Harvey. And you better _goddamn_ well listen this time. You are going to give those detectives any goddamn thing they want. You are going to make yourself available to them every goddamn night and goddamn day. Unless you'd like to be accused of obstruction. The press would eat that right up, wouldn't they? It would be a public relations nightmare. You know how much of a nuisance that would be for the firm? For me? And Harvey, you know I don't like nuisances. Do I make myself I clear?”

The abrupt silence made Mike's skin prickle.

Jessica's voice went low. “Harvey? You understand me?”

“Your call Jessica. I'll go first thing tomorrow.” 

“There, was that so hard?” Mike could almost see her raised brows. “Good night, Harvey.”

Mike listened to her steps grow faint until they were completely out of earshot and then slowly rose, knees-creaking and sore from the sudden drop he had taken.

"Wow, that felt rough. And I wasn't even the one being chewed out."

The effect his sudden apparition had over Harvey was less violent than he would have liked, but the little sound of surprise Harvey made was satisfying. He supposed that it was a little cruel for him to do it, considering how on edge Harvey probably was.

" _Jesus_ —Jesus, Christ, Mike!"

“Sorry I don't have a Donna quote prepared,” Mike joked. His stomach knotted at the uncharacteristic, shuttered look Harvey gave him.

"Yeah, you got me. Good job, tiger!" Came Harvey's gruff reply as he headed into his office.

Mike closed his eyes briefly, upset by the needling guilt he now felt. He swung around Donna's desk to follow Harvey. At this point, he knew he should have just left. But he kept moving, eyes fixed on Harvey's back. He knew full well he shouldn't give in to the desire to keep pushing—there would be no going back if he did. But it was just the two of them now, no one to get in their way, and Mike found the temptation impossible to fight.

"So, you're not going to let Jessica know I was here, are you?"

”You're a big boy Mike, you can do whatever the hell you want.”

They stopped in front of Harvey's desk, and Mike opened his mouth to say something but was momentarily silenced by Harvey's warning look. His ears burned.

“Look. Harvey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I just wanted—,” Mike hurried to get the words out, but there was something about Harvey's eyes that threw him off, made everything he thought seem like a waste of time. Harvey took advantage of the hesitation, leveling a palm at Mike and then indicating to the door with it.

“Just go home, Mike.”

“Wait, Harvey I just—” 

“Home. Ross.”

“God damn it Harvey. Just give me a second!” Mike demanded. Without thinking, he grabbed Harvey's arm.

The reaction was faster than Mike had expected it would be. Harvey yanked his arm out of Mike's grasp and rounded on him. Mike was shocked to see something flash for the briefest of seconds on Harvey's face, a strange, helpless look.

Neither said anything for a while, both of them guardedly regarding each other.

“So tell me, what is it Mike? What do you want me to say? Want answers for things you have no business of knowing? What me to admit to something? Which is it?” 

“I just want to know what's going on Harvey. You've been keeping me out.” Mike raised his voice as Harvey shook his head and said something under his breath. “You have! You've been keeping me out of the inner circle, and you know that's bullshit!”

He wanted to draw the truth out of Harvey. He wanted Harvey to know he wasn't going anywhere, that there was no sauntering away from this, this time. He was here to stay. He wanted to say all these things, and more, but it's all scrambled up in his head now. He can't remember how to word anything now that he's so close to Harvey.

“Mike, I hired an associate not a _fucking_ wife.”

Mike set his teeth. Why was Harvey pushing back so hard? It infuriated him to know that Harvey was still, at this point, convinced that he could handle it all by himself. And after everything that had happened? After Gregory had died? After Harold and Kyle had gone missing? Being full aware the amount of danger he was in? The total lack of concern he was showing for his well-being made Mike want to beat the shit out of him, make him understand how big of a mistake he was making. Didn't Harvey ever realize how much he was needed?

Mike's voice shook as he spoke. “What the fuck do you expect, Harvey? Firm's practically closed, people are _dead_ —dead and missing. You're in the middle of it, and you act like nothing's happening when we're together. It isn't fair.”

Harvey barked out an unkind laugh. Mike's stomach turned.

“'It isn't fair'? Do you have any idea how that makes you sound?” Harvey stepped closer and Mike retreated with a smaller step back. He eyed Mike as he would something unpleasant. “Instead of making yourself useful and staying out of the way you're interfering. Do you know why you're doing that?”

“Because were _partners_ Harvey,” Mike asserted but faltered at Harvey's derisive grin.

“No, Mike. You know what I think is really happening here? You want to fix everything, don't you? You're the good guy, the saint; everyone around you is broken and it's up to you to change everything. That's how it is isn't it? Always tying to prove everyone wrong. 'You can win and care', right? It fulfills that pressing need for martyrdom, knowing you took one for the 'cause'. Wonder were that comes from, Mike.”

Before Mike can say anything in his defense Harvey quickly crowds him back against the wall of records and gets in his face. His voice is level and low, slipping into a mode he reserved for business. Mike's familiar with it and can't fathom how Harvey was able to just flip a switch to become like this—can't fathom why Harvey's using it on _him_. All Mike can do is look up at him, wide-eyed.

“You think this world is all sunshine and daises. You think that with enough kind words and good deeds, you'll be able to change any fuck-up or loser that comes your way. Well, I've got news for you, kid. The world doesn't work like that, and I've got no time to teach you something you should've already learned when you were still in diapers.”

Harvey tilts his head, dark eyes searching Mike's face. Mike's breath hitches and he's thrust back to the time Harvey caught him high. The disappointment is there in Harvey's eyes again, worse now to Mike while sober, and it threatened to buckle Mike's knees.

“Mike, I saw potential in you but I also saw weakness. I can see I was right to suspect that you probably weren't cut out for this job for the long run. Because what you make up for in brains you lack in practicality and common sense. And as for schooling those 'Harvard douches', I'm thinking that hiring one of them would've been far less trouble for me.”

“Harvey—”

“No, see, I'm not done yet, Mike!” Harvey interrupted with a hiss. “I don't want to listen to your high-and-mighty, good-will-always-prevail bullshit every single god damn case. You and me? We're done. I want you to get the hell out of my office. Now.”

The words cut into Mike despite knowing that Harvey was just trying to get him to leave. He had figured Harvey would try to keep him at arms length once he started prying for answers. But there were no half-measures with Harvey when he committed to something and Harvey had perfected the art of mercilessly unraveling other people. So the words still hurt because they rang true to Mike, in some ways he was already aware of and hated, and in other ways that he refused to acknowledge. It was difficult not to wonder if there was a part of Harvey that had wanted to say those things to him.

“Fine,” Mike said quietly. He held up his hands, as though excusing himself from the matter. "Fine."

He slipped away, fingers dragging across the bumpy rows of records. He had just made it to the door when Harvey spoke again, voice drained of life.

“Leave your ID.”

There was a beat of silence and then Mike heard a roaring in his ears that he had been trying to keep at bay for months now. A choking ferocity welled up inside him, making him want to overturn everything in Harvey's office, snap every record in half, and break all the windows.

His hand trembled and then he thrust it into his pocket to take out the Pearson Hardman ID. He held it tightly for a moment, feeling the laminate press sharply into the skin of his palm. He didn't dare look at it and instead chucked it somewhere to his side, the sound of it hitting something dull, probably the couch, and unsatisfying to his ears.

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, and left the office without looking back.

* * *

Mike could barely remember how he had gotten there. He didn't care. It was warm in the bar— one he had chosen at random—and loud. Observing the late night crowd kept him occupied, kept his thoughts off of Harvey.

“One more,” he murmured to the bartender who readily assented.

This was his fourth beer but Harvey's words still tumbled around in his head, clear and sharp, reminding him that he wasn't welcome back.

Good riddance—or so he wanted to think. It was good news, not bad. It would be a relief to be free of the mind-numbing paperwork, the constant need to be a step ahead of the game, and the knowledge that every high-profile case brought him closer and closer to potential exposure as a fraud. But his chest still felt tight, like there were several rungs of heavy rope resting inside him.

A couple of blond girls chortled at his side, dexterously tapping away at their phones.

One more beer turned into another, but Mike was hard-pressed to turn the beer into anything harder. He felt a lot like wallowing in this feeling, not completely obliterating it. 

Besides, he had ridden his bike there.

The bartender strolled off to service a couple that had just sat down. Mike turned around in his seat, straining his neck, and gazed for a while at the passing cars and people. One of the girls bumped his arm, spilling a little of his drink

“Oh sorry!” she laughed. Mike was about to say something when the girls were joined by a man and he was promptly forgotten.

It hadn't occurred to him before, only in that moment, that Harvey hadn't really fired him. It seemed obvious to him, now, that is was just another tactic Harvey was employing to keep him safe. Wishful thinking, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking. Exhaustion visited every part of Mike's body at the mere thought.

He finished his beer, tapped for another one when the bartender came back around, and soon felt the cool dampness against his fingers. It wasn't like he was going into work tomorrow anyway. Harvey aside, entrance to Pearson Harman was still restricted thanks to one degenerate psychopath. And things wouldn't go back to normal, Mike reasoned, for a long time. Which gave him some time to wonder if he was actually fired and if that actually mattered to him or not.

Halfway through the bottle, his vision started to tunnel and blur. He pressed a hand to his forehead and blinked a few times to try and get some relief. The bar lights seemed unbearably bright now, too warm on his flesh. The conversations around him faded in and out in waves. The over-stimulation began to make him nauseous.

Mike attempted to stand and nearly stumbled to the ground, feeling a roll of dizziness wash over him that made legs wobble and feel like jelly. Adrenaline coursed through him for a split-second and he grabbed a table to prevent himself from collapsing. His heart pounded. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Hey—buddy. You don't—good...ok?”

Mike tried to say something in reply but found that his tongue was heavy, as though it were coated with something. His own voice now joined the other voices that started to sound muffled, nonsensical. He could feel his words slurring and felt frustrated by this without fully understanding why. It became difficult to comprehend what was going on.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he managed to look up into a blurred, unrecognizable face. A voice started to talk near the shell of his ear. Mike only picked up a single word: Taxi.

Mike blinked lethargically, trying to figure out what that could possibly mean as he was led away. He didn't know what was up or down. It was a difficult task to move his legs properly, but the hand on his waist helped somewhat. He was grateful that whoever was helping him had a good grip on him.

The burst of cold air that hit them when they left the bar failed to reinvigorate him. He slumped a little in the other person's grasp and only heard a grunt in response.

The car lights flashing by were nothing but streaks of color and he felt sick to his stomach the more he watched them. He spent the next few seconds trying to overcome the feeling until he was aware of the din lessening. He was moving away from the street. It seemed much darker now, and he sluggishly tired to work out where he had been taken. 

The smell of damp asphalt and wet garbage reached his nose, pungent even in his altered state. An alley, beside the building where the bar was. A groggy realization bloomed up briefly: they needed to move toward the streets for taxis, not away, right? And he needed his bike, too.

He tried to walk himself, but only managed to lurch forward unsteadily. The body shifted against him, holding all his weight.

“Whoa. Whoa there.”

He leaned into the assistance gratefully. His blood pounded in his ears after the minor exertion.

The darkness seemed to swallow up his entire world and Mike could only make out a few blurred lines. He felt himself jostled slightly and felt the cool touch of something metallic against his hands. The unmistakable sound of a car door being opened followed.

“Get in.” 

The command was muted, like his ears had been stuffed with cotton. He thought of Harvey. Mike wanted to laugh and then wondered perhaps if Harvey had actually come to get him. Wouldn't that have been something?

The vehicle he was touching was not brightly colored like a taxi. Not the vibrant yellow he had been expecting. At once, he felt a flash of doubt. If it wasn't Harvey, then who had helped him out of the bar? Where was he taking him?

His limbs didn't respond at all when he wanted to push the person away from him and run. A lick of dumb terror shot through him. He was completely helpless. He wanted to yell, catch the attention of a passerby, but his jaw was glued shut.

He felt himself maneuvered inside the vehicle against his will, hands on his waist and shoulders. He was lifted slightly and laid down into the leather seat, his legs bent to get them out of the way of the door. With great effort, he managed to lift his head to see the blurred figure close the car door on him.

His head dropped and he lost time—fading in and out of consciousness. When awake, he watched the lights coming from the other cars on the road flashing across the interior of the car. His entire body was numb. And the only sounds he could make sense of were the rumble of the engine and some music coming from the radio.

He knew he was moving, knew it was the car itself that was moving. Unable to keep his lids lifted for very long, he could only drift off again and again.


	7. Chapter 7

Day 1

The dreams he had were strange and disjointed—his subconscious regurgitating the information of the places most familiar to him. It was no surprise to him, then, that at certain points he had thought he was back in Harvey's office but also found himself in a place that was decidedly not Harvey's office. 

Sometimes, he was surrounded by smoky windows and shifting, blackened shapes that vaguely resembled people. He recalled an ache in his chest—an ache that rose until it rested very tight in his throat.

Most of his anger had dissipated and a sort of lonely sadness had taken its place.

He hadn't been expecting the feeling of loss, like something so very important had been viciously carved out of his life. There it had been in his grasp—the opportunity of a lifetime. A job at one of the top law firms aside, he had found something with Harvey that he only now realized was irreplaceable.

Harvey had been more than just a friend. It was much more than companionship or work-related camaraderie. Harvey had become his mentor, an individual he could finally look up to. Mike been able to discern a clear-cut purpose for himself for the first time in a long time. He had actually been going somewhere, becoming someone. But it was all over now. That sense of structure to his life had slipped through his fingers the second he had pried into Harvey’s life and tried to forcibly insert his presence there. Harvey had been right about him, about the hollowness of his intentions and his passive management of his selfishness. The second he had tossed his ID to the side, he knew that things would never be the same—and he had let it happen.

The revelation gave way and he jolted awake with a shudder.

It was too bright. His head felt sore and it was accompanied by a general sense of sluggishness. He lolled his head back with a quiet groan, eyelashes fluttering at the blinding light that he seemed to be awash in. No, not quite blinding. His eyes adjusted slowly as he began to steadily blink.

Was he still at the bar?

He shifted a little, meaning to lift his hand up to his temple, but found that his movements were restricted. Something tight and unyielding pressed into the skin around his wrists. He jerked harder, finding the unexplained constriction alarming even in his lethargic state, or perhaps even more so because of it. He strained against the bonds, his teeth clenched with the effort. Soon exhausted, he slumped in his seat with a gasp.

He gazed blearily around him, not immediately recognizing the significance of his surroundings, only seeing formless, filmy shapes.

Certainly it was a huge stretch of room, devoid of much save for a row of big, rusted machinery lined up neatly against the wall to his right. The windows were large, slatted metal, and high up, close the ceiling. They spilled light from the outside across him and other parts of the room. There was also a faint sound he had started to become aware of, a constant _swooshing_ sound, like something heavy was moving deliberately through the stale air.

The air held a heavy smell that filled his nose and put a bad taste in his mouth, something like copper, like when he was a kid and was dared to taste the rust-water from a broken fountain at school. The odor only made the pounding in his head worse.

He turned his attention back to his wrists. His awareness suddenly snapped back to him, as clear as his recalled childhood memory. The copper smell had grounded him, focused his thoughts. And as he pieced together all of the alarming facts that he had gathered from his surroundings, he came to the jarring conclusion that he hardly had any solid facts to work with at all.

Zip-tie, plastic, and bright white, pressed tightly against his skin. They bound his arms to that of the chair that he was sitting on. His ankles were done much the same, backed by the chair's legs. He was immobile, vulnerable—trapped.

Fear shot through him like a fist to his gut. _Where the fuck am I?_

Mike jerked his head up, mouth gaping slightly. He tried to calm himself down, but his too-quick-thoughts were racing faster than he could control, spinning wild, frightening explanations for his situation.

This is… a factory, he realized. His breath quickened. It was an ancient looking one at that, he could see this clearly now. The sound behind him was a fan, an industrial fan, most likely used to ventilate the room. 

There were a lot of rundown or gutted and converted factories near or in New York City—which one was he in? _Why_ was he in one? 

The train of thought dimmed when he saw them. Kyle first, Mike recognized his shoes. 

The other man was slumped in a chair, chin dipped to his chest, his wrists and ankles bound with zip-tie as well. For a few tense moments, Mike feared Kyle was dead, alarmed by the others apparent stillness. But by watching Kyle long enough he found that he could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Harold was only a foot or so away from Kyle, bound to his chair in a similar fashion. He mirrored Kyle’s unconscious state. Mike could see a livid bruise on his forehead.

At once he felt a tremendous flood of relief, short-lived, but nevertheless strong in its moment. Kyle and Harold were alive. Since their disappearance he had thought the worst, that they too had been murdered like Gregory. Seeing the two of them alive reassured Mike, though only a little.

His head fell back once more and he squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. How much had he drank the night before? Despite the wavering amount of clarity he had managed to grab a hold of he couldn't, for the life of him, conjure up any memories or knowledge of how he had gotten here from the bar.

“It's the temazepam.”

The voice startled him and he sat up to see if Kyle or Harold had woken, but they both remained still as before, slumped in the same positions.

He could hear footsteps behind him, echoing in their slow approach, taking advantage of the acoustics of the large room.

He sat up straighter and tried to discern where they were coming from. His hands curled into tight fists, despite the fact that he would be unable to strike whoever it was that was walking towards him.

The footsteps stopped and there was a short period of silence. Mike felt eyes on him, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

“You'll be feeling out of sorts for the next couple of hours.” The man who addressed him finally stepped into his line of view

He was tall, perhaps in his late forties. His dark hair was peppered with gray strands and slicked back. The peppered stubble on his chin and jaw contributed to his aged appearance. He wore a well-fitted but worn russet-colored windbreaker—wet, Mike noted absently, by the patches of dark dampness on the man's shoulders.

The man's statement hung in the air, nonsensical and frightening to Mike. Temazepam—sleeping pills. He recalled them from a news report; some over-worked kids in college had overdosed. It was a drug for anxiety, a relaxant, sometimes used to treat insomnia.

“While you were at that bar I had someone slip temazepam into your drink,” the man clarified. He shrugged off his windbreaker and folded it neatly over his arm.

Mike worked his throat and tried to remember the specifics of the other night with limited success. He only had a couple beers, no one had bought him anything. He hadn't gone to the bathroom at some point had he? 

He then thought of the blond girls, their blurry outlines, their toothy smiles, and remembered the little nudge while his head had been turned, their laughter, the grinning apology...

“It's terrible isn't it? Most people will do all sorts things for a little bit of cash. Stupid things—things like spiking someone's drink with no care toward what will befall the individual on the receiving end.”

Mike couldn't believe what he was hearing. This man had arranged to have him drugged, presumably had stalked him to the bar and had kidnapped him. Now, he was admitting his guilt, effectively incriminating himself. Yet he was nonchalant about it, as though he were casually making small talk. He wasn't wearing a mask and hadn't blindfolded Mike, allowing Mike to see his face and potentially identify him; the possible implications of this filled Mike with a sense of dread that only grew as the seconds ticked by.

Who are you? What do you want? Mike wanted to demand but found himself unable to produce a sound that wasn't a gravely croak. His throat was painfully dry.

“Hang on. Let me get you some water.”

The man left and returned faster than Mike thought he would, windbreaker now gone from his arm. He offered Mike an opened plastic bottle of water.

Mike was compelled to refuse. For all he knew, it could've been laced with more drugs; the guy obviously had a penchant for slipping things, whether directly or indirectly, into other people's beverages. But his parched throat made it hard to swallow, a convincing incentive, and the man did not show any signs of retracting his offer. He drank half of the bottle greedily, the plastic crackling nosily as he sucked down as much of the cool water as he possibly could.

Hardly any water was lost. His kidnapper was almost considerate, almost gentle, tilting the bottle back and forth so Mike that had a chance to swallow the last mouthful of water before taking any more.

When he was finished the man stepped back, capping the bottle. Mike held up his head, trying not to show fear, trying to steady his voice. This would be important; he knew he needed to keep calm and think clearly. He licked his dry lips. However, the water that was now rolling around in his empty stomach only worsened his nerves and increased his queasiness.

“...Who are you?” he finally managed to get out.

He didn’t get an answer right away. Instead, Mike watched as the man slowly placed the nearly-finished water bottle on the ground. He then walked around Mike, disappearing completely from his line of sight. Mike strained in his bonds, but he could only turn his head so far. The chair was immovable, as though it were bolted to the ground.

The man returned with a camcorder, right hand nestled in its strap, a tripod stand in his left, and a large duffel bag hanging off his shoulder.

Confused by the presence of the items, Mike watched as he set up the tripod about a foot away and dropped his bag. It sounded heavy, full of things that clicked against each other. The muscles of his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his pinstriped dress shirt as he worked to set the camcorder on the tripod and fiddled with the screen. Mike watched as he positioned it, bringing it a little closer. It was only once he finished that he addressed Mike again.

“I thought you would've figured out who I am by now. You're supposed to be smart, aren't you?”

In two lengthy strides the man abruptly closed the distance between them. His left hand shot out to roughly grab Mike's jaw, squeezing hard and eliciting a startled grunt from Mike.

“I'm Derrick Brennan.” Came the vehement whisper. “The man whose life Harvey Specter destroyed. Tell me. That ring any bells now?”

Mike's stomach lurched. He couldn't look away, even as Brennan tightened his grip. Brennan's expression had changed from one of carefully controlled neutrality to one of frightening rage. The dark bags under his eyes implied frequent insomina, but the eyes themselves were almost alight with hatred.

“Now you finally understand the position you are in. Now, you finally understand your situation, don't you? Micheal James Ross.”

Mike's nostril's flared Brennan's careful pronunciation of his full name. He tried to turn his head away and averted his eyes. Brennan's index finger tapped his cheek and Brennan clucked his tongue.

“No, no. None of that. I don't want to have to drug you again. I'd rather have you awake but if need be I can put you out again. Maybe you might wake up while I'm working on you, I imagine that would be a bit jarring.”

 _Working on me—?_ Mike’s heart thrummed hard against his chest. The words Brennan spoke jackknifed his already muddled thoughts into further frenzy. He was at the complete mercy of this man.

Brennan's gaze suddenly drifted across Mike's face, his eyes unfocused, as though some distant thought had reached him. Without warning, he released Mike, who drew back.

“Simply put, this was—this _is_ all retribution for what he's done to me and my family. The details aren't worth going into for little smarmy shit like you. You and the rest of Pearson Hardman are just chess pieces in a larger game, you see. Specter’s the one I’m after,” Brennan finally said, the careful neutrality sliding back onto his features. 

Mike's gaze dropped down to his knees. He couldn't believe that this was all actually happening. The man before him was the shadowy figure who had, all on his own, shut down one of the most successful firms in the state. He was the one who had thrown Mike's life, and the lives of everyone else, into a state of chaos. He was Harvey's mysterious caller, note-leaver, and humiliating past failure. He was murderer too, something darkly reminded him, and he felt the back of his neck gather sweat. Mike thought to say something, but his mouth only opened and then closed.

“You have to understand, Micheal. Gregory was a mistake.”

Mike jerked his head up at the mention of his former coworker's name. Brennan had his back to him again and was fiddling with the camcorder as he spoke.

“You see, in the beginning, I was just going to kill Harvey. It took a long time for me to get to that point, mind you. But once I did it was like I knew exactly what to do and how to go about doing it. I followed him for a long time, watching him, just watching. Watching what he did, where he went; figuring out how he likes his coffee."

Brennan's hands dropped from the camcorder and he turned back to Mike.

"It was about a month ago when I reasoned I was finally ready. I tracked him to a restaurant and waited for him to leave some business meeting. I was going to slit his throat in the middle of a busy sidewalk. I didn't care about getting caught. All I cared about was watching him die.”

Brennan took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one of them out, and procured a lighter from his other pocket. He inhaled once, puffing as he lit the cigarette, and then pocketed the lighter.

“But it was strange. After all this time, I started to have my doubts. Not about wanting to see him dead, no. But the way I should do it. I got to thinking that that wasn't good enough for me. It was far too quick, far too easy. It wouldn't have been enough, not nearly enough for what I knew he owed me, what he owed my family.”

Brennan took the cigarette from his mouth and approached Mike again. He crouched down in front of Mike who tensed up at the man's closeness. Brennan's manner of talking unsettled him, the calm way he spoke, almost serene. He tried to distance himself from Brennan as best he could, pressing his back flush up against the chair.

“There are better ways, less violent ways to break someone, to destroy them so completely that nothing even remotely human is left of them. You can ruin a full grown man, without leaving so much as a scratch on his body, if you know which cog to remove or alter in his head. That's something I've learned over the years, you see. We all can break so easily.”

Brennan's hand fell on Mike's knee and Mike's eyes flicked down to it and then back up at Brennan's face. The piercing gaze that Brennan fixed on him made his skin prickle, he couldn't get a read on the man at all. The tip of the cigarette sparked when Brennan took another drag.

“Anyway, coincidentally, Gregory was at the same restaurant. Maybe for business or maybe it was personal, I don't know. He caught Harvey outside but Harvey practically acted like he didn't even know the guy worked at Pearson Hardman. Poor Greg looked devastated. And it was in that very moment that I realized—this is it— what better way to kill Harvey but to do it slowly? Use his guilt to fill the last few the last few months of his life with misery? Why would I just kill him, when I could get him to _beg_ me to do it?”

Brennan suddenly lifted his free hand and tapped Mike's shoulder with his finger.

“So I surprised Greg while he was getting into his car. I stabbed him in the shoulder, here—messy.” Brennan's hand then drifted to Mike's chest and he placed the flat of his knuckle against Mike's sternum, betraying no emotion when Mike flinched. “And somewhere around here, right into his heart—an accident. I felt the handle of my knife jerk when the last bit of strength pumped out of the muscle. He screamed once, only once. I wasn't planning for him to die so quickly, but all things considered it turned out for the best. He's the one who turned me to the better path. For that, I'll always be grateful to him."

Mike didn't answer, he couldn't look at Brennan. He looked, instead, at the machinery lined up against the walls, and worked lump that had formed in his throat. It was surreal, he couldn't bring himself to completely acknowledge what Brennan was saying as the truth. He felt like throwing up, sick with a sort of depth-less terror. There was a scream threatening to tear through his throat. He kept his mouth shut, trying to swallow it.

Brennan quietly nursed his cigarette. It felt like an eternity had passed before Brennan finally stopped staring at him, saying nothing, and rose. He took a final drag before he flicked it to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot.

“Don't do this,” Mike finally said, his voice lacking strength.

Brennan, ignoring Mike, stepped over to his duffel bag, knelt, and rifled through it. He slipped on some black leather gloves.

“Brennan." Mike inhaled, exhaled. "You can't—we, we didn't do anything wrong. You can't kill us.”

“Well of course I won't. Not right away.” Brennan pulled out a pair of pliers and motioned with them as he spoke, without looking at Mike. The blood drained from Mike's face.

“Fuck. Oh Jesus. Jesus Christ,” Mike whispered to himself. He began his struggles anew.

"Ok. I’m going to ask you to look at the camera, Mike.”

When Mike didn’t reply Brennan quietly walked over to him and violently backhanded him. Mike gasped in shock, his jaw and neck smarting. Wide-eyed he met Brennan’s unwavering gaze. Brennan leveled a gloved finger at him.

“I’m only going to ask you to do things once. I was planning on leaving you for last, but I can take a few fingers in the meantime. Do you understand, Micheal?”

Mike shook his head, trying to come up with something, anything, that would stall whatever it was that Brennan had planned.

“Don’t do this. Just—just tell me what you want, okay? Tell me what happened between you and Harvey. Give me your side of the story; I’ll listen, I swear to God I will. Maybe I can help you. Maybe we can help each other.”

Brennan dropped his hand and leaned down. He smiled, amused, and patted Mike's cheek. 

“No. I just want you to sit still and look pretty.” Brennan straightened and then re-positioned himself back behind the camcorder. “And five, four, three, two…”

He made a silent motion with his extended index and middle fingers towards Mike and the camcorder's red light blinked on.

Mike shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsure of what it was that Brennan wanted him to do.

“Don't worry. I’ll do all the talking.” Brennan remained behind the camcorder as he spoke. Then he addressed the camcorder itself.

“Specter, its Brennan. I'll skip the foreplay as we've been already been dancing around each other for over a month now. Time is short, so I’ll make this quick. I'm not seeing that you've gotten the message yet. It could very well be that you're stupid, so I’m going to step things up a little in the hopes that you finally get what's going on and what I expect from you. Michael will be assisting me—give Harvey a nice, big smile Michael."

Despite Brennan's earlier warning, Mike felt physically incapable of obeying the ridiculous order.

"A little camera shy, isn't he? Well, he'll get used to it. He’s going to help me during the next few days with his coworkers, Kyle and Harold. Yes, they're here too. Mike won’t suffer too badly, yet, but I can’t say the same for the others. I'm going to make him watch, you see. And because you both are so close, I’m going to save him for last. And then I'll dedicate a special video, of that, just for you. Consider this the beginning of my final correspondence. Oh and detectives? I’ll go quietly if you find me…that is, if you can find me, in time. Tick, tick, tick." 

“No, no, no! Please! Please. Wait!” Mike desperately tried to weasel in a word but Brennan had already turned off the camcorder. He focused a blank look on Mike.

“I thought I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut,” Brennan softly admonished and Mike drew back into himself once more.

Brennan then grabbed duffel bag and dragged it over to Kyle's chair. He dropped the bag and started to shake the other man. Kyle’s eyes fluttered open and closed and he groaned, shifting. Mike was painfully aware of how he probably felt—not to long a go he, too, had struggled to even remember his name through his drug induced haze.

“Wakey, wakey. Mr. Durant, you’ve got company. It's rude to keep company waiting.”

Kyle’s eyes snapped open, first resting on Brennan and then Mike.

“M-Mike? What—?” Before Kyle could continue, Brennan’s actions drew his attention. Brennan had grabbed a hold of his chin and was pushing a thick-looking, balled up cloth against his lips.

“Keep this in your mouth,” Brennan ordered. Kyle pursed his lips more, it seemed, out of terror than in obstinate reaction. Unhurried, Brennan lowered the balled up cloth. “You might bite your tongue off if you don't have something to set your teeth against.”

Kyle only worked his throat, light from the windows catching the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“If you don't do as I say, I'll break your jaw and kick all your teeth out of your mouth.” Brennan's tone was level but his words could've cut through ice.

Kyle flicked his terrified gaze to Mike once, wordlessly seeking something, and then opened his mouth as if to speak. In one fluid emotion, Brennan shoved the cloth into Kyle's mouth, grabbing the back of his hair to keep him from jerking away. For a moment, Mike thought Kyle was going to spit it out, but the other man's jaw clenched around it, unable to take it out even if he wanted to.

Brennan grabbed Kyle's index finger and without warning bent it towards back of his hand, throwing his entire weight down on top of it, until a wet snap sounded out. Kyle's scream was muffled but no less distressing. The veins on his reddening neck bulged as he writhed in his chair and continuously threw his head back. Another snap followed and another, stunning Mike in their rapid succession. Brennan worked quickly and efficiently.

Mike could not bring himself to look away as an inexplicable paralysis had gripped him. He had seen this sort of thing in films and television, it was the kind of brutality he had heard about in newspapers and online. But nothing could prepare him from the sounds. He jumped at every snap and scream—there were five fingers on each hand, only ten in total, but it seemed like the sounds would never end. At some point, Mike was aware of the unmistakable scent of urine.

My God, this is actually happening, Mike thought. All of this is actually happening.

The screams suddenly subsided and Kyle's entire body went rigid. He slumped in his seat, sobbing, and meekly twisted his wrists around under the zip-tie. The fingers of his hands were contorted, bent back so far that they curved unnaturally. A sheen of sweat covered his face and he seemed unwilling to view his distorted fingers. Mike was shocked that Kyle was even still conscious after his ordeal. Brennan mirrored the thought aloud.

“Damn Kyle. I'm surprised that you're still conscious after that,” Brennan seemed to genuinely compliment, sniffing. Kyle's eyes remained shut, his sweating face was awash with a gray pallor. His teeth were still driven into the cloth. "I mean you pissed yourself but, still, I gotta hand it to you."

Brennan wiped his own perspiration with his upper arm and sniffed again. “Ok. I'll be back tomorrow boys.” 

Mike snapped out of his daze at the statement and watched Brennan pack everything into the duffel bag. Mike finally worked past the stopper that seemed to have been put in his mouth.

“What do you mean? You're just going to leave us here?” Alone?—almost hoarsely slipped out as well, but Mike held his tongue.

“Yes.” Brennan flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. “It's nearly twelve right now. You'll have six hours to rest before I come back. So you should make good use of that. There's a lot left for us to do.”

Brennan's apparent self-assurance that the three of them would be unable to escape while he was gone, unsettled Mike. But Mike held on to the notion that it would give them all a chance to regroup, figure something out. It was something. 

Brennan shrugged his bag over his shoulder and disappeared behind Mike once more. Despite any straining Mike did, he still could not turn enough to see where Brennan was going. A loud screech sounded, as though a sheet of metal were being dragged across the floor, and then silence dropped over the factory.

A silence only broken by Kyle's faint sobs and moans. Mike could only watch him.


	8. Chapter 8

Day 4

The chair was bolted to the ground after all. The desperation fueled by this discovery had Mike try to forcibly pull one of his hands through the zip-tie around his wrist, even if it had meant dislocating his fingers in the process. But it turned out that he hadn't the stomach for it. The second the pain had become unbearable he had stopped. Harold was much the same, when he was awake enough to attempt it, and Kyle's hands were in no condition for him to even try.

And they all had tried screaming, he, Kyle, and Harold. They had all screamed until they, one by one, quieted when the world-ending realization reached each of them that no one would be able to hear them.

It was Kyle and Harold who had endured the brunt of Brennan's attentions for three straight days now. True to his word, Brennan hadn’t so much as touched Mike—only ordered him to watch, which was its own sort of torture.

Harold’s tolerance for pain was lower than Kyle's. Brennan had taken an aluminum baseball bat to Harold's legs and, immediately following the sickening crack of the bat connecting with his shin, Harold had slumped in his chair, unconscious. The violence of the action had horrified Mike and it was only then did he realize that turning away would only make it worse. When Brennan had noticed him looking away, he waited and then had started viciously swinging again once Harold awoke, citing Mike at fault for the continued beating.

Brennan had planned out everything very well, the conclusion itself wasn’t very difficult to come to. The torture was increasing in its savagery, but remained just short of causing any massive trauma. Brennan was intent on keeping them all alive for as long as possible and, in that period of time, in as much pain as possible. And for Mike, the psychological torture of waiting for each new agony to play out was enough to match the physical torture itself.

Brennan did not shy away from his work either. Mike had thought that seeing Kyle’s fingers broken was of the worst things he’d ever experienced. But when Brennan returned on the second day, Mike watched as he carefully amputated Kyle's ruined fingers and cauterized the stumps with the careful application of pruning shears and a blowtorch. It was a process done while Kyle was more or less subdued by drugs, but still awake enough to scream his throat raw.

Mike hadn’t been able to stop from being sick then and even now realized, gut churning unpleasantly, that the smell of burnt flesh lingered. That had only been two days ago.

“…Mike.”

The hoarse voice brought Mike out of his stupor. He reluctantly lifted his eyes. If he had not already known it was Kyle, he might not have been able to recognize him. The man's color had remained gray since the last session of torture, his visage laden with a constant perspiration. His eyes were sunken, turning what was once a handsome face into one of ghastly fatigue. His eyes were bloodshot, yet were eerily steady, making it hard for Mike to fully meet them.

“We have to…” Kyle licked his cracked lips and wheezed, "We gotta do something. We can't just sit here and wait like this. We can’t just sit here and wait for him to come back and keep doing this to us.”

Mike didn't answer immediately. Before his lips could barely part with an answer, Kyle let out a choked sob.

“Please, please! Mike! I don't wanna die. Please, Mike. Please. We have to get out of here. I can't take it anymore. I wanna go home.” 

Kyle Durant, a man who had enough pride to match Louis and Harvey’s egos combined, was begging and whimpering like a child. The sight disturbed Mike. Brennan was succeeding in wearing them down. The waiting was the worst part of it, not knowing when Brennan would return or what he would be doing to them when he did. If they all succumbed to it, their chances for escape would reduce significantly.

“Kyle, calm down. We’ll figure something out, I promise. We just need to keep our heads clear—”

“Well, that's fucking easy for you to say Mike!” Kyle suddenly screamed, violently jerking in his bonds as though meaning to lunge at Mike. Rage contorted his features as he continued to spit. “Fucking easy when it isn't your fingers being broken and then cut off—"

The words seemed to die in Kyle's throat at this and he began to weep again and groan. He looked between the haphazardly bandaged and bloodied stumps on both of his hands. 

“No. No. Jesus Christ. The drugs are wearing off. It hurts. It fucking hurts! I can't do this Mike, I can't—I can't, oh god. God, why is this happening to us?”

Kyle’s breath suddenly quickened and he gasped loudly, throwing his head back and shaking it back and forth as he panted. “I can't—why is he doing this? Doesn't make any sense. I can’t—I can't, breathe.”

“Hey—hey! I'll think of something. But we need to keep it together so that we can figure out a way out of this. We can't do anything about it unless we keep it together. Come on, I know your stronger than this. Look at me—Kyle, look at me!”

Kyle’s nostrils flared. He snapped his mouth and struggled to to steady his breathing. He met Mike's eyes, expression wild and pleading. Mike was shaken by the look but he knew it was important right now for Kyle to see that he had complete confidence in what he was saying, even if it was a lie, even if everything _wouldn't_ be okay.

“Good, good. I'll get us out of this. Okay? Just promise me that you'll keep breathing. Like this, okay?” Mike took a couple of exaggerated breathes, eyebrows raised, indicating for Kyle to imitate him.

Kyle’s eyes remained fixed on him and Mike had to force himself not to look away, despite the way his guts twisted up. He was worried Kyle could see through him, clearly see how frightened he was, see that he was trying to summon up a false bravado.

“You’re the only one the bastard's left alone. It’s always you Mike, isn't it? You were always the special one, weren’t you? Harvey Specter's associate. No one had been good enough for him. But then there you were, outta fucking no where. Harvey's associate. Harvey's _favorite_ ," Kyle rambled, bemused. 

Kyle's eyes were growing distant, the stress of his outburst and panic attack presumably having worn him down. Mike was losing him in the opposite way and Mike felt a thrill of alarm course through him.

“Kyle, what are you—? Can you hear me? Kyle! Stay with me Kyle!”

“You promise?” Kyle sudden rasped and startled Mike with his pointed look. “You promise we'll get out of here?”

Mike opened his mouth but could not say "yes". Something in him was preventing him from giving Kyle this minuscule piece of hope. Did he not believe it himself? Or was it that he didn’t want that responsibility? In his current state, Kyle only seemed capable of holding on to a singular thought at a time. Mike could see that his responses had become a buoy for Kyle, something solid he could grab on to when so much was uncertain. If Mike said "yes", Kyle would be able to go on, despite Brennan’s tortures, and despite the apparent futility of their situation. It made sense out of something senseless, it was a simple question with a simple answer. 

Mike only nodded.

The silence was suddenly broken by the now-familiar metallic screech of the factory door behind him. Kyle had said, a day or so ago, having a better line of vision on it than Mike, that it appeared to be the only entrance and exit to the factory.

Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched at the weight of it. He found Brennan beside him, a half-finished cigarette dangling between his fingers. 

“Ready to start? Sorry I'm late, traffic was real bad.” Brennan put the cigarette out on the back of Mike's chair. “You know, Mike, I’m going to have to ask you to pay better attention this time. I'm sure you've it figured out, by now, that the more you look away, the worst I'll make it for Kyle and Harold.”

“The way you’re taunting the police like this—you just keep making the target on your head bigger and bigger! You think they're going to let you get away with this?” Kyle suddenly screamed, seemingly unable to control himself. 

Brennan did not seem perturbed by Kyle’s outburst—if he was, he didn’t let it show. He took two small items out of his pocket and fitted them on his hands—a pair of brass knuckles.

“Wait! Brennan wait!” Mike yelled. He had no affect on Brennan who strode towards Kyle with great purpose. 

“Look, don't hurt him! Harvey won't break any faster if you hurt him. I'm the one closest to Harvey, right? Me, right?”' Mike's brain wildly grabbed at any phrase that sounded useful. He found himself drawing from incomplete, hurried thoughts and speaking far too quickly to recognize what he was even saying.

“In the next video you shoot, don't you want Harvey to get the idea that you aren't playing around anymore? If I look messed up, don’t you think he’ll be more frantic? That's want you want right? You want him to suffer don't you? So hurt me—not Kyle and not Harold. Please, hurt me. They aren't the ones who've done anything wrong.”

A violent tremor visited Mike after he finished. Part of him couldn't believe that he had said what he just said. He wasn't sure Brennan would even listen to him. Guilt snaked a tightness in his chest; he knew full well he was encouraging Brennan to hurt Harvey through him. But he couldn't think about that, not now, not here. That would come later. All he wanted, right now, was for Brennan to leave Kyle and Harold alone, even if it was just for the day. He couldn't stand the thought of watching them mutilated further.

Brennan had stopped in his tracks during Mike's plea and stood like that for a while. He then turned around to face Mike, his eyes distant.

“You’re right, Mike.

Mike straightened and looked up at Brennan as the other man stopped in front of his chair.

He winced when Brennan cupped the side of his face and lifted his other hand so that Mike could see the brass knuckles. They looked new and gleamed in the paltry sunlight that filtered in through the windows of the factory. This is going to hurt, Mike realized abruptly, growing cold. It was going to hurt a lot.

“I'm going to try to avoid breaking any bones. Don't move around too much.”

Mike had closed his eyes at the statement and Brennan tapped his forehead, trying to get his attention. “Did you hear that, Mike?”

He’s really going to do it, Mike thought, tugging at the zip-tie and finding them as unyielding as the last time he tried them. 

“Keep your tongue in your mouth unless you want to bite it off. And clench your jaw so your teeth don't go flying everywhere—or don’t, it’s up to you.” 

Unable to do much else, Mike obeyed. 

“Good boy.” Brennan patted his cheek and wasted no time. 

The punch came faster and landed harder than Mike had expected it to. It was as though he had run face first into a cement wall at full speed. His head rolled with the blow. He let it hang as he stared wide-eyed at the ground. The pain was intense, radiating out from his cheek bone down to the tendons in his neck, where the sudden jerking motion had given him whiplash. 

The punch came from the other direction this time, and Mike's teeth scraped together as the force of it knocked his head to the other side of his shoulder.

He had only taken a few good punches in his life. He and Trevor had fought sometimes—seemed like a long time ago now—for fun and out of “genuine” adolescent rage. But this was different, these were blows that weren't held back or carefully measured. And the addition of the brass knuckles added a level of pain Mike never thought was even possible.

“W-wait,” Mike managed to gasp out, ears ringing.

He barely had time to clench his teeth when another punch came out of thin air. Stars erupted into his vision. Pain exploded in the middle of his face and a trail of blood dripped thickly down his chin and onto his knees.

He coughed, feeling the copper flood run down his throat and gagged at the taste. He tried to spit a mouthful of it out, but it just dribbled onto his thighs. A gooey, pinkish strand of saliva clung to his chin.

“Sorry about that,” Brennan said, unmoved by the sight of Mike's blood. “I got your nose.” 

Mike grimaced when his head was yanked up by his hair and Brennan peered into his battered face. He could barely make out Brennan's features, his eyesight blurring with pain and the beginnings of agonized tears.

“It doesn't look too bad. I'll set it when I'm done.” 

He released Mike and another punch quickly followed. Mike only grunted, thoroughly stunned and knowing nothing except that it was urgent he get away from Brennan, those brass knuckles, and the pain.

A gentle touch to his cheek steadied him and was followed by another punch. The ringing in his ears grew louder and blood seemed to cover everything the more it pumped from his nose.

Is he going to kill me? The hysterical question visited him briefly and then he blacked out

* * *

Mike awoke to the stinging touch of something very cold and wet applied to his cheek. His nose felt like it was on fire but the pain was considerably less than when Brennan had first broken it. A headache was aggressively pounding against his skull, making it near-impossible to think. He was sore from his head to his shoulders, but it was mostly his face that felt like it was radiating a steady heat. Trying to move rippled an intense pain down his neck and worsened his headache. 

He could open his eyes at least, enough to see Brennan readying another cotton swab.

“Water,” Mike drunkenly asked and then cleared his throat, his voice slightly stronger. “Water.”

"In a minute," Brennan replied tonelessly and dabbed the cotton ball under Mike's eye. The smell of the hydrogen peroxide was strong.

Mike groaned when Brennan removed the cotton ball and saw it was completely soaked with his blood.

"If I don't set it now, it won't heal properly." 

Mike's eyes grew wide at the statement. Brennan had already placed his fingers against the broken appendage. 

"Hold still." The words barely left Brennan's lips when he abruptly added pressure and shifted it. A dull crack sounded, followed closely by Mike's guttural cry of pain. 

Brennan held Mike head still until Mike stopped gasping. He hadn't noticed the relief the act had brought him until he realized that he was now able to breathe through his nose. He snorted past the dried blood that had begun to coagulate in his nostrils.

"There. Get you some water now."

The warm fingers left his face and Mike's head dropped like it was weighed down. He was far too weak to keep it lifted by himself for very long.

Vision still impaired from the pain and swelling, there was very little he could clearly make out. Harold was the closest thing he could see and was lying on the ground rather than tied to his chair. The sight startled him enough to force what little energy he had into raising his head up. Harold was indeed on the floor, though his hands were still tied behind his back. There was a damp cloth draped across his head, covering it, and a steel bucket nearby.

"H-Harold," Mike whispered, more out of pain and disorientation than wanting to keep Brennan from hearing him. Harold did not answer. "Harold?"

"He can't hear you. He's out like a light again," Brennan briskly interrupted and forcibly turned Mike's head towards him. "And I had to gag Kyle, he had been the nosiest son of a bitch since I knocked you out. Here, drink."

Mike pursed his lips when Brennan put the bottle to his lips. He shook his head. "What did you do to Harold?"

Still holding Mike's head up for him, Brennan turned to glance behind him to take in Harold's motionless form. He faced Mike again. 

"He went for a swim, didn't swim so well," he replied vaguely. "Now drink."

"I said I didn't want you to hurt them anymore." Mike fought to keep the statement from sounding pitiful, but it proved to be futile. Still, Brennan's expression did not change. 

"Mike, none of you going to leave here alive," he stated simply. Mike had thought it before, briefly, once when Brennan had showed him his tools. But when Brennan said it aloud it was cemented, unavoidable. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to stop the words from reverberating around in his skull. The pain from the headache flared angrily, making him nauseous.

He drank when Brennan pressed the bottle against his lips again and grimaced at the taste of blood and mucous, washing down everything that had collected at the back of his throat. He coughed often.

"So you kill us, and then what? You're going to kill Harvey?" Mike croaked. Brennan began dabbing his face with the hydrogen peroxide again. The other man was quiet only working silently and only touching Mike to turn his head to get better access to another area of his face.

"Kyle and Harold, I don't really need them alive for very long. Harvey's concern for them will be surface level, I'm sure. It's you that really matters Mike, only you. You're the real guest of honor here. And I need you alive for as long possible until I've decided that Harvey has suffered enough."

The hatred towards Brennan surprised Mike when it washed over him, as if he was no longer cognizant of what Brennan was capable of. He despised the way Brennan spoke, as if he were convinced that there was nothing wrong with what he had been doing. As though Kyle and Harold weren't even human beings. As though this was all just the natural state of the world, that it was all simply business he was seeing to.

What kind of a man was Brennan to be doing things like breaking fingers and water boarding without betraying any emotion? It wasn't something the average person could do. As far as Mike could tell, Brennan wasn't taking any pleasure out of torturing them. Even as he spoke about killing Harvey and making him pay for what he had done it was like there was nothing there. When Mike looked into his eyes he could sometimes find the anger, barely suppressed rage lingering beneath the surface, but more often than not there was an emptiness there. The emptiness frightened Mike more than the rage, how unfamiliar and depth-less it seemed.

"How long were you a bookie for them? The _Bratva_ ," Mike suddenly questioned, recalling his conversation with Donna.

Brennan paused in his work, then continued. "Ten years. It was ten years. I did what I was told. I never asked questions and I gave them what I needed. And they took care of me and my family like they said they would."

"What happened?" 

Brennan ripped open a thin, paper package. He unpeeled a couple of sterile butterfly bandages and pressed his fingers against the wound he had been tending to just under Mike's eye. He pushed the edges of the wound together and Mike bit his lip to hold back a groan when pain spread out across his cheek bone. Brennan pressed the bandage over the wound.

"I made a mistake. Just a little mistake," Brennan admitted and repeated the process with another bandage. He smoothed out the strips and inspected his work, wiping some crusted blood away, his mouth slightly open, before going on. "I had a habit of gambling more than I had."

"And that's why you came to Harvey for help?"

"The best closer in New York, that's what they call him now. The man's head is so far up his ass that he thinks he can do what he want, step on whoever he wants, and get away with it. I knew men like that. If you don't leash them in time, before you let them get to that point, it's impossible to manage them. But do you want to know something about men like Harvey? They don't last long when they're sitting in the same kind of chair you're in right now. Because all they want to do is take and take, but when you take away their control, their power—hell, they break like everyone else." 

Mike was given the impression that, perhaps, Brennan had been doing far more for his former employers than he was letting on. Mike couldn't help but also think that this was the most information Brennan had ever revealed about himself in such a short period of time. He needed to build on that, get Brennan to get more comfortable with talking to him. He was starting to grow overly aware of Brennan's movements, every flutter of his eyelashes and twitch of his features.

"Why bring a fake case to Harvey? Out of all your options? What made you think that was going to work?"

Brennan seemed to look through Mike when Mike said this, as though he were seeing something that wasn't there.

"That hadn't been my idea." 

Mike's drew to attention at Brennan's soft statement. 

"The guy I was working for, he said either I do it or I get a mouthful of lead."

"Why didn't you—"

"Run? Turn myself in? In those times, there was no such thing as running for guys like me, not at the height of it. Not when you were so low on the rung. So I wasn't going to do it, not when I had my family to think of. I wasn't going to take any chances, not with their lives. They were the only thing that brought me happiness in my entire life. So I took the way out that was offered to me, and thanked them for it."

They were—? Mike wondered and noticed, too late, that Brennan's demeanor had undergone a visceral change. The familiar look of rage drifted back onto his features and Mike considered ending the conversation, in case Brennan decided to take some of the rage out on him.

"But Specter! Specter had no heart. He didn't even listen. And my—my family," Brennan began shake, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, as though something horrific were playing out in front of him at that very moment. "Their blood, their _blood_ —that's on his hands!"

A unpleasant feeling crept over Mike seeing the change that had come over Brennan. He thought back on the news clipping that had been sent to Harold and the descriptions of the unidentified bodies, the composite images of a woman and young girl.

“You know, "Mike ventured, tiptoeing. "Harvey paid for everything, all those court fees. I think he felt sorry for you.”

“Felt sorry for me?” Brennan shot back, vicious. "No! He was worried about smudging his new record. 'Felt sorry for me'—don't make me laugh. You know what he said to me the last day I spoke to him, face to face?"

Brennan was uncomfortably close now, so close enough that Mike could smell his unwashed skin and cheap cologne.

"He told me that he didn't care about what happened to me or my family. 'Not my problem', he said. Then he wiped his hands of everything and sent me to the gallows. He just moved on from it like it meant nothing to him."

Brennan was so incensed by his dialogue that his teeth had bared and he had curled his hand into a tight, trembling white fist. The hatred was palpable, but Mike couldn't believe what he was hearing—he didn't want to believe it. Cruelty was not something he could have ever expected from Harvey. But even while thinking this, Mike remembered the night at Harvey's office, the venomous way Harvey had insulted him and had cut into him with such ease.

Brennan breathed hard for a moment before he relaxed.

“The details don't matter; I don't have to prove anything to you. The truth is that Harvey Specter destroyed my family, my life, and my future. Nothing will change that. I have nothing left because of him, and nothing to lose. And nothing— _nothing_ —will change the work I've set out to do.”

“You keep saying that," Mike butted in, frustrated by the lack of progress he had made with Brennan. "How can you blame this all on Harvey? It's not like he forced you to gamble and wrack up enough debt that you'd be at the mercy of guys who kill at the slightest offense—"

Mike bit his tongue, sweating. But Brennan did not react to the prodding with violence like Mike had expected. Instead, a terrifying smile broke out across his face.

"You'll understand," he assured. "Eventually, you'll understand, Micheal."

Mike heard Brennan's words but they made no sense to him. What was Brennan really getting at? There was something unsaid, just on the tip of his tongue. What was it? After everything Brennan said, Mike got the sense that there was more to all this. It had been a long time since that fake case and Brennan had admitted that he had only recently decided to take his revenge. What wasn't being said in between the periods of silences where Brennan's eyes grew unfocused?

Brennan finally stood after putting his supplies away.

"I'll be back with food," was all he said, before leaving.

Even if Mike could have come up with something to say, he doubted that he'd have the strength to say it. It was a relief when the screech of metal echoed through the factory, signaling that Brennan had finally gone. Mike was grateful for the silence—only marred by the rattling breath that came from Harold and the muffled sounds of a gagged Kyle. 

He needed to be ready when Brennan returned. Ready to ask his careful questions, find out more about Brennan, more about his motives. Mike needed to know who he was, and who he had been before; turn those things on him and unsettle him. They would only be rescued if Brennan made mistakes. His family was his weakness, something Mike could exploit to his benefit. Don't play the odds, play the man.

Mike was surprised by how much he took comfort in remembering Harvey, remembering his voice. How the ache had returned in its intensity and how much the need to see Harvey, safe, and standing in front of him made him almost want to start weeping.


	9. Chapter 9

Day 7

When the revolver was leveled at his forehead, Mike was sure that he was dead. 

He clasped the chair's arms, going wild with terror. He was incapable of doing much else but waiting for what would come next. There were no memories flashing before his eyes. No last minute, despairing "should-haves". There was only a rawness that churned his guts, as he looked directly into the dark barrel of the gun. He was facing a violent death, maybe a few seconds of pain and then, inevitably, the void.

He's going to kill me, the realization dawned on Mike with a rocketing intensity that peaked quickly into something primal that gripped his entire body.

Not here, not like this. Please, please, please.

“Please don't—,” he managed to whisper out before an ominous _click_ startled him. His mouth remained parted, throat stuck on the rest of the words.

The disconnect between the sound and what Mike had expected to happen was very jarring. Brennan had pulled the trigger but his brains hadn't been blown out. He risked a look up at Brennan, unable to fight down his choked back sounds. Tears that had pooled at the corner of one of his eyes finally rolled down his cheek. 

“Bang,” Brennan whispered, eyes bloodshot. He spun the revolver's cylinder. The stink of liquor and drying sweat filled Mike's nose. 

“ _Fuck_ , fuck,” Mike harshly sobbed and hung his head.

His hands were trembling. Everything seemed to crumble down around him. He hadn't realized that he had gone so rigid until the tenseness had begun to dissipate and he was aware of just how painfully tight he had been gripping the arms of the chair. He had been so sure that he was dead.

“You want to know?” Brennan laughed but his expression was more of a grimace. "You wanna know about me?" 

Abruptly aware of how exhausted he was, Mike had trouble focusing. He had been kept awake all night by what had happened yesterday; how desperate he had been to cover his ears as Kyle's piercing screams followed the sound of ripping, like pieces of velcro being pulled apart, as Brennan flayed the skin from his upper arm and how distressing he had found Harold's wet drowning sounds as water was poured over his puffing cloth-covered mouth and nose. 

Mike fluttered his eyes shut and tried to chase away the stubborn images that seemed as fresh in his head as when he had first seen them. It was his goddamn brain he had bragged so much about, had relied so much on—he couldn't stop it, no matter how hard he willed himself to. He drove his teeth in his lip. 

“You wanted to know about about me, didn't you?” Brennan repeated, mouth suddenly near Mike's ear and Mike clenched his teeth when the revolver was pushed under his chin, forcing his head up. Brennan looked down at him, waiting, jaw so close Mike could see how over-grown the stubble had become.

“I—,” Mike began. His breath wavered as he took in Brennan’s appearance— his clothes disheveled, stained. 

Mike inhaled shortly and caught the smell of liquor again. Brennan was unpredictable in this state and dangerous. Despite this, Mike figured this was his best chance at prying more information out of the other man. Brennan came to the factory drunk and had dropped his guard; he was getting sloppy.

“Yes. Yes, I want to know.” 

“Of course you do. That's all you want isn't it?” Brennan barked. The revolver left Mike's chin and Brennan and drew away from Mike with a look of disgust. “See, that’s the problem isn't it? None of you know what the right questions are, none of you even care about knowing what the right questions are.”

"Tell me. Tell me what the right questions are, Derrick—!" Mike hissed out the name when Brennan shoved the revolver to his damp temple and pressed the barrel hard into his skin. Brennan's hands were shaking and Mike trained his eyes to the side, chest heaving. "Please."

Brennan shifted and then lowered the revolver again.

“Alright. Alright. Go on then, Micheal. Ask me something.”

Mike watched the revolver in Brennan’s hand with trepidation as he gestured with it. Brennan handled it with great familiarity, but he was still drunk. Brennan could pull the trigger without thinking, without it really meaning much to him.

Brennan only had eyes for him now. Mike watched him sway on the spot, grim smile quirking his lips. Mike was drawing a blank despite the opportunity he had been presented.

“Could you—.” Mike swallowed. His mouth was dry. “Could you tell me about your family?”

The smile dropped from Brennan's face at that. A lack of color washed across his skin, as though he had been completely drained of the blood in his body. Mike felt a thrum of alarm at the transformation, wondering if he had just earned a bullet between his eyes. 

Then Brennan laughed nervously, though he still looked bloodless. He nodded in agreement, as though he had expected the question, and then lifted the gun to his head. He held Mike’s wide-eyed look for a moment and then pulled the trigger.

Mike flinched at the _click_ but, once more, the gun did not go off.

"Let's play a game, Micheal,” Brennan muttered and let his hand drop limply back to his side. He kept his finger extended, parallel to the trigger. 

“A bit of roulette; you get a question, I get a question. Maybe if you’re lucky, I mean really lucky, the back of my head will end up on the ground. Sound fair?" He spun the cylinder again.

As Brennan spoke in a nervous, clipped way, the gravity of situation finally dawned on Mike. He had trouble acknowledging the sinking suspicion at first. There was something about Brennan that had belied the calm exterior he had put for show during the first few days of their capture. Brennan no longer felt it necessary to hide the truth, the ugliness from them anymore. Mike could see it now, clear as day, that Brennan had lost his mind.

He had known that was the case, of course, when he had first learned about Brennan from Donna. But looking into the man's eyes now, and finding that persistent emptiness there even behind the rage, drove it home. Brennan had indeed cracked a long time ago, but had, even so, managed to cobble together some semblance of reality; enough to put this whole thing together. The facade was cracking, revealing a broken man who could promise nothing, whose own words meant nothing to him.

“But you said—didn’t you say that you needed to keep me alive?” 

“Wanted to do a lot of things,” Brennan said, smiling and bedraggled . “But the human body can only take so much and my patience is running out. So, are you ready for this?”

Mike couldn’t agree to leave his life up to a game of chance—not aloud at least. Brennan saved him the trouble of forcing out something out; he felt it linger on the tip of his tongue.

“My family. We were just like any other family. I had a wife and a daughter. Little narrow house; bless us, all ours, and a little yard for my daughter to play in. There was this, this great big bay window my wife always liked to sit at and she'd look out at the beach. We walked that shore a lot, water was always so cold. Sometimes, we’d visit my folks up in the better part of the city. When the folks passed, we didn’t go out much anymore. But they understood. They were like that—they always understood. Always.”

Brennan trailed off, eyes going distant again, and then he directed his attention back to Mike.

“You ever want kids Mike?” 

“Yes,” Mike whispered as Brennan leveled the gun at him. Repeated, louder: "Yes."

“It isn’t worth it,” Brennan and Mike cringed when he pulled the trigger. 

_Click._

Mike exhaled, breath coming hard, and found he couldn't stop. His chest hurt every time he gasped. 

“You’re a lucky man, Michael. Michael?” Brennan knelt down beside Mike, eyes searching as Mike continued to hyperventilate.

“Hey. Hey! Keep it together. You know, I’m playing this game too.” Brennan put out his arms, showing Mike his chest. “And look, I’m keeping it together aren’t I?”

“Please I just—I just need a second,” Mike shuddered out and Brennan frowned, dropping his arms. 

“No deal. Whether you want to or not, this is the game we’ll be playing. If you’d like, I could keep the gun on you and just keep spinning and clicking until the fireworks come. Is that what you want?”

Mike only shook his head. 

“Good. It’s my turn now. What should I ask?" Brennan patted Mike's knee. "Well how about your family? They still alive? 

“No,” Mike hoarsely replied. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes but still couldn't control his breathing. He wasn't going to mention Grammy, he didn't want to even think about her, taint the image of her with any of this—didn't want to consider that he'd never see her again. “I Just had my parents. They’re—they died when I was a kid.”

“So you know a little about loss do you? How’d they die?”

Mike opened his eyes and felt his cheeks grow wet with tears. He shook his head, meaning a thousand different things that he couldn't put into words.

Brennan leveled the revolver at him again, finger curling toward the trigger.

“Micheal. How did they die?”

“It was a car accident!” Mike ground out, hunching his shoulders. “Alright? A drunk driver—I didn’t...I never told them goodbye, they died and I never said sorry to them after we fought.”

A pause. The revolver was lowered and hung loosely at Brennan's side. Mike's vision was blurring. He wasn't getting enough air into his lungs. 

“Micheal, look at me.” Mike finally opened his eyes and Brennan took an exaggerated breath. “Breathe Micheal. Breath with me.”

For an achingly familiar moment, Mike willed himself to breathe along with Brennan until the rise and fall of his chest evened and he could think clearly again.

“They ever catch the guy?” Brennan then asked when Mike had finally calmed down.

“Skeevy lawyer representing the bastard came to my house. Bullied my grandmother into settling the case,” Mike whispered haltingly. A familiar despair crept up from a place inside him that he had long forgotten about; the helplessness, the frustrating rage of a child who hadn’t the strength yet to save anyone. Nick Rinaldi. He would never forget that man’s name. "I couldn't do anything about it. He bullied her into letting her son's murderer get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist."

Brennan was quiet for a beat. Then, he began to undo one of the zip ties around Mike’s right wrist. Cold metal pressed into the palm of Mike's hand and Brennan fixed his grip so that it was correctly placed on the revolver.

“Ever shoot a gun before, Micheal?” Brennan questioned offhandedly.

Once Mike was holding it all on his own, Brennan stood and took a step back.

“My daughter was fourteen years old. She wanted to be a hair dresser.”

Mike’s grip on the revolver shook. He lifted it and pointed it at Brennan. The unfamiliar weight seemed to root him down, bringing to his thoughts a strange, rousing clarity. He had never held a gun before, let alone shot one, let alone ever _thought_ he’d ever have to shoot one. He could end it all, right then and there.

But aiming for Brennan and keeping the revolver on him was surprisingly difficult, which only confused Mike. Hadn’t he been waiting for an opportunity like this? The power was finally back in his hands.

Mike held on to the gun tightly, trying to steady it, pointing at Brennan’s side. He knew that he’d probably be sick all over himself if he shot Brennan, but he also knew that shooting Brennan wouldn’t just be for him, it would be for Harold and Kyle’s sake as well.

“The house was cold,” Brennan started up again, voice soft. “I came home after a long day at the races, expecting to see my wife and daughter. But they were gone. Just like that. Vanished. Like they hadn’t been there at all, like the house had always been empty. I get my gun, I check the bay window the yard; and then, when I'm about to call the wife’s folks someone hits me over the head with something. There's nothing but darkness and—”

_Click._

Brennan stopped talking and Mike opened his eyes after pulling the trigger. Nothing had happened. 

As though having expected Mike to do this, Brennan continued on, unperturbed.

“When I came to I was tied up, much like you, and gagged. Couple a’ guys I knew were there, they couldn't meet my eyes when I asked them what was going on. Boss then comes to me. Boss says: ‘You thought we’d let you get away with this?’ I say: ‘Get away with what? I did everything you told me to do.’” 

_Click._

“They bring my daughter and wife out, they don’t bother gagging them. They wanted me to hear them, see? I get to realize the boss knows I never tried to run out on him. He just needs an _example_. He just needs the others to see what he’s capable of—of what he could do to their wives and daughters and sons. Bad luck, you see. It was all down to bad luck.”

_Click. Click. Click._

“They rough me up a little. Daughter begs them to stop. Then Boss says: ‘This is what happens to guys who try to pull one over me’. When he says this, the couple guys I know leave the room. They left because they couldn’t stomach it, not after eating my wife's cooking, not after listening to my little girl sing for them.” 

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

“They start slow on my wife, real slow. And they make me watch everything, they make sure I see everything they do to her. Boss is real careful; it lasts days. It lasts until my wife can’t even scream anymore. My wife finally dies, but it isn’t soon enough. Then, they bring in a group of guys I don’t know, and my daughter, they...and my baby—God she looks at me with these, these eyes. And she’s so small that it kills her…for God's sake, she was only fourteen!”

The revolver clattered to the ground and Mike gazed at Brennan with abject horror.

Brennan looked as though he were prepared to collapse on the spot, like it was only through sheer willpower alone that kept him standing. His face was green and his mouth had grown rough and he gripped the now-damp now-unruly hair on the top of his head until his knuckles had drained of blood. It was as though the mere recollection of the event threatened to undo him right then and there. His eyes were wide open, mouth a soundless scream, as though an endless film of his wife and daughter’s suffering was being played before him.

There was nothing Brennan could do to forget the absolute wrongness he had spoken of, and this all had been the only way he was capable of dealing with it. The trauma would never leave him, and no amount of therapy or passage of time could likely ever fully erase what he had witnessed. 

Brennan choked back a gasp and then squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He finally opened his eyes, after a time, but still visibly struggled to keep it together.

He bent down to pick up the gun. 

Deliberately, he popped out the revolver’s cylinder and showed Mike. 

The chamber was empty.


	10. Chapter 10

Day 10

There was a bathroom, partially functioning, in one of the factory’s offices located up a flight of rusted, peeling steps to their left. The office overlooked the factory floor. A big glass pane window took up much of one wall. The office had a desk, the only piece of furniture left behind along with the faded paperwork that littered the dull and uneven carpet; worn, old memos bearing names and messages of strangers long gone. When being led through the office and passing the glass, Mike was always able to see the prone forms of Harold and Kyle and his own empty chair.

The bathroom itself had no windows and contained one toilet, a completely non-functioning sink and a mirror. He had caught a few glimpses of himself in the mirror and soon stopped looking. The pipes had nothing running through them, of course, but the toilet could still be flushed. Brennan kept a bucket of what smelled like polluted seawater in the bathroom, which he would pour into the bowl. This had told Mike that they were probably by the ocean, in one of New York's many industrial complexes that lined the coastline. There were more than a handful of abandoned factories and power stations like the one they were in, the city not having enough money to spare to formally tear them down. But Mike hadn't been able to narrow down their exact location with so few details at hand.

The situation that Kyle, Harold, and he were in demanded that they have no privacy. Under Brennan’s watchful eye, Mike would relieve himself, always conscious of the revolver leveled at his back, and allow himself to be shepherded back to his chair to be re-restrained and be forced to watch whatever it was that Brennan had planned for the day.

Kyle and Harold received the same treatment. This occurred up until the two of them were too weak to make the long trek to the bathroom, and this fact Brennan had dealt with by using the very same bucket. 

Mike, at first, had resisted, but had then since been broken of the habit of attempting to run after bearing witness to Brennan's brutality, and after it became chillingly clear that Brennan had been planning this for a very long time.

The location that he had chosen had been successfully eluding the authorities; this was by no accident. Brennan had handpicked the factory with a very specific criteria in mind. Brennan had actively researched his possibilities, taken the time to visit every location until he found one that best suited his purposes. A time-consuming process that could have easily lasted months. And as Mike had watched Brennan videotape the events of the last few days, he had come to another unsettling conclusion. The videotapes he sent to the authorities were localized on whoever was receiving the torture, leaving little room to pick out potential clues from the surroundings. And, even so, there was little, at least in Mike's opinion, to be found. Brennan was meticulous in everything he did, despite having lost his mind. But perhaps it was the madness that had made him so detail-oriented, so sure that this was the only way he could reconcile with what had happened to his family. Failure had never been an option for him. And in believing he was incapable of failing, he had cemented his success.

It was a simple. Help was not coming.

How long had Brennan been planning this?

Years, Brennan had hastily replied the day prior, looking as though he had aged several years since he had revealed what had happened to his family to Mike. _Years_.

Sitting alone in the silence of the factory, for Kyle and Harold were once more both unresponsive, Mike felt suddenly quite separate from his surroundings. Coping mechanism probably—he grasped blindly and ignorantly for an explanation for the out-of-body sensation.

He felt as though if he blinked he might find himself in his bed, safe in his apartment. He daydreamed about that sort of thing often, about waking up in a cold sweat with his body thrumming as if physically shaken by someone and realizing that it had all been a nightmare. And Harvey, he’d call Harvey immediately. Sometimes the thought would be so vivid, so necessary to dwell on, that he would find himself blankly staring into space for hours.

Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of a dream and feel the rush of euphoria when he encountered scenery of his room, only to be dragged back into consciousness, back to the factory.

Harvey? something in his head questioned, uncertainly. Not Grammy? Not Rachel? Not Jenny? Not Trevor?

Perhaps it had only been because Brennan had constantly mentioned the man, but during his whole ordeal Mike had latched on to Harvey’s image, especially the sound of his voice. Remembering Harvey was not difficult, Mike had a plethora of memories to choose from, all detailed right down to which cuff links Harvey had worn on which days. He took great comfort in recollecting their conversations, even the ones where Harvey had roared or quietly snapped misdirected words that had cut him to the quick. It became apparent that it wasn't just Brennan's obsession but his own that had made him so receptive.

Since the day he had met him, Harvey had been his protector—so he assumed it was only natural that he would want to think of Harvey when things became difficult to bear. Harvey had always bailed him out, even if he did feign reluctance and irritation while doing so. Every time Mike had thought he had finally broken their friendship, Harvey ended up trusting him again, helping him again, _fixing_ everything again.

Harvey had been the one to fix his mistakes, to give him the second chances that he had quietly asked for, needed, and never willingly squandered. Harvey had taken on a role, seemingly of his own accord, of his own want. This was a role that Mike and he had agreed on without saying so; the role of mentor, best friend, and—even though brings an embarrassed flush to Mike's cheeks to think it—father.

Harvey’s unfaltering loyalty had been something that was, in his experience, completely new. He could trust, above all things, that Harvey always had his best interests in mind. That even if he didn’t agree with Harvey’s methods, even if Harvey hid things from him, did things under the table, there were never done to intentionally hurt him. Harvey would never throw him under the wagon to save his own skin. 

Mike didn’t know what to do with any of it. Donna had told him that Harvey "really liked" him. Mike had begun to think that there might have been something else to what she was saying. There was something else to it all, something else behind the smirks and the clever rapport. Whatever it was had kept Harvey's interest in him alive. Mike could see it register in the man's eyes whenever Harvey was hurt by something he did. What did Harvey see when he looked at him? Was Mike more than just a protege to be molded in his image?

No matter how many times Mike had fucked up, no matter how many times he had betrayed Harvey or at least felt like he had, Harvey still stepped in to give him a hand. Harvey cared about him enough to give him advice when necessary, to direct him—despite having said too often that he didn’t care about him at all. All of that had to mean something.

Harold's loud, wheeze cut through his thoughts, eliciting a lick of irritation in Mike. The strength of the feeling startled him in its viciousness. The guilt arrived just as swiftly.

He lifted his gaze to Harold who was looking far worse than he had yesterday. The other man had developed the phlegmy rattle of a cough after the first day Brennan had started waterboarding him. The water, Mike still wasn’t entirely sure where Brennan was getting it, couldn’t have been very clean judging by the smell. It was likely that the cough was caused by any number of complications due to Brennan's attentions, like pneumonia. The risk of infection for all of them had grown higher, after Brennan had ceased to treat their injuries, as he had himself seemed to mentally deteriorate.

With the wet-sounding coughing fits and the confusion Harold had been exhibiting, Mike knew that the man wouldn’t be surviving for very much longer. He was still bound to a chair, which didn’t seem necessary. Even if freed, Mike doubted that Harold would be able to get very far.

On one of Harold’s legs, his knee cap was wrapped up with a makeshift, cloth bandage that had already turned completely red. The knee cap itself had been shattered by a single bullet, the exit wound rather large. "Irish kneecapping", Brennan had half-jokingly explained while aiming the gun at the back of Harold’s leg. When he shot right through the knee Harold had shuddered only once and then had fallen from his swaying, standing position. Since that day, Harold hadn’t said or done anything but wheeze and cough and let out, every once in a while, a too-long sigh that Mike couldn’t help but pray might be his last.

No matter how many times Mike called out to him, Harold never answered. Part of him was disturbed to think that he had given up on Harold, but he couldn’t help the too-quick-to-catch exasperation that flared up whenever Harold coughed or breathed. It was the most childish sensation of annoyance, a feeling that he shouldn't have had towards Harold’s gradually worsening state. But it was stemming from a part of him that had began to swell in size as the days had passed. There was now a cold practicality in him that was only intent on escape. Harold would be a liability, Harold would have to be left; this train of thought seemed to make more and more sense to him. Every day, the voice of compassion in him grew smaller and smaller. There was no time for compassion, no time to think about his own morality. Why should he and Kyle die to save someone who was already dead?

Mike would often catch himself in shock, frantically wonder where such thoughts had come from, and try to think about ways of getting them _all_ out of this alive. He forced himself to remember Harold's look of appreciation when he didn't join in on the bullying in the bull pen. Forced himself to recall what Harold had told him of his childhood summers spent in Canada.

He felt like he was losing unseen parts of himself, wasn't sure which ones they were, just that they were slipping out of his hands. Above all things, he was terrified of becoming like Brennan. It was like Brennan had a disease that he would pass on the longer Mike was around him.

The factory doors behind him scraped open and, across from him, Kyle startled awake. The other man immediately began making noise. He had been left perpetually gagged due to his insistence on begging, threatening, and generally speaking nonstop. It had been Kyle’s way to deal with his situation, Mike understood it was just the person Kyle was. But even that modicum of comfort, Brennan had taken from him.

Mike gripped his chair and waited _Just let it be quick today. Please, just make it quick._

Brennan made his way over to Harold. He knelt he examined Harold’s prone from in the chair. Mike winced when he slapped Harold around but drew nothing more than another agonized sigh from him.

“Well, I'd say he’s just about finished. Wouldn’t you Mike?” 

Mike didn’t reply. Brennan suddenly rounded on him, angered by his silence. Mike set his teeth. 

“I asked you a question didn’t I?” Brennan shouted wildly.

Mike nodded. He would do anything Brennan wanted just to to finish this faster. He didn't look directly at Brennan, afraid that he might accidentally meet Brennan's eyes.

Brennan turned his attention back to Harold. He said nothing for a while and then directed another question to Mike without looking at him.

“Should I kill him now? Put him out of his misery? Or should I start cutting pieces off him already? I doubt he’d feel any of it, though, so what would be the point?”

The inquires were like a kick to Mike's gut. Brennan was voicing the shameful thoughts he had been thinking.

Mike stiffened when Brennan retrieved the revolver from the waistband of his pants with and pointed it at him.

“Please.” Mike’s voice was hoarse, he didn’t think he sounded like himself anymore. The word "please" had lost any meaning to Mike. He said it reflexively now, repeating it over and over again like a mantra.

“Please just—please. Please. Please.” 

“Listen to me now. Don't shut down on me. Does he live or die, Micheal?"

“You can't just...You can't make me decide something like that. It's not that simple.”

Brennan advanced on him slowly. The barrel of the revolver was pressed to Mike's chest and Brennan’s finger went to the trigger.

“It is that simple Micheal. Will he be the one to die or will you die for him?”

Mike felt like he was slipping into some dark abyss and he hadn't the strength to claw back to the surface. His shoulders began to shake and tears flowed down his cheeks, tickling his chin as they rolled off it. He began to sob and looked up at Brennan with red-rimmed eyes.

"Please don't make me. Please," he begged.

Brennan waved the revolver over at Harold.

"Are you going to die for him? you know, he won't even know you sacrificed yourself to him. So you are you proving yourself to? Yourself? Me? _God?_ Look, I know I told you before that you're all going to die anyway but maybe the cops do show up tomorrow, come save your corpse of a friend, pronounce him dead at the hospital—and here you'll be, head peeled open like a orange for the whole world to see that big brain of yours.

"You can't just make me decide something like that," Mike repeated mindlessly, finding he had already come to a decision. Brennan's words had been tying his stomach into knots. Harold was too far gone, there was no way he was going to survive even a day longer. Mike reasoned that it wouldn't make any sense for him to die, not when he was the only one in any condition to do something meaningful. Every second alive, was another second devoted to figuring out a way out of this.

"Michael—"

“Just—just end it already.”

The words had slipped out so easily, much like his renewed sobbing. Even though he knew Harold couldn't have heard him, the knowledge that Brennan and Kyle had heard him filled him with shame. They both saw the ugly moment of stark selfishness, that he had valued his own life over Harold's. They were now both aware that, at some point, he saw his life as being of more worth than Harold's. He pursed his lips, stifling his hiccups, as snot dribbled over his lips.

"Shh, easy Micheal. You get it now, so there's no need to cry. You've made the choice most people would have. This is what it means to be human, right? You're finally starting to ask yourself the right questions."

Brennan slipped the revolver back into the waistband of his pants. His expression had softened an his lips quirked up into a fond smile. He stepped out of Mike's line of vision. What happened now? Mike felt the stirrings of wanting to revoke his decision, but his tongue held fast.

There was a clattering sound and Brennan was in front of him again, wearing a clear plastic rain coat. He placed something on the ground and then approached Harold. Mike dropped his eyes to the object on the ground; a small chainsaw.

“What are you doing?” Mike brokenly asked Brennan's back, thrown off by the sight of the chainsaw. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Kyle was making a valiant effort to get out of his chair.

“This is how he will die. It’s the same way they killed my wife. I want you to watch this.” 

Brennan pulled out a switchblade from the pocket of the rain coat. The blade sprung out with a flick of his wrist and he held it firmly. He grabbed Harold’s damp locks with his other hand and jerked the man's head back, exposing his pale neck. Mike could see his pulse.

“God, what are you _doing_? No! Jesus, no! Just, use the gun—make it, make it quick.”

Brennan put the blade to Harold’s throat and pressed it into the skin there. He met Mike's eyes and Mike shivered as they seemed to bore into him, as though Brennan could see that he wasn't pleading for Harold's sake but his own.

“No. You’re going to be the last thing he sees. You’re going to watch the life drain from him. You made your choice, and now you're going to have to live with it. Just like I did. Just like we all have to.”

Brennan drew the blade across Harold’s throat. Kyle's muted screams seemed like they were coming from outside of the factory. Mike had thought he would immediately recoil from the sight and shut his eyes, but he found that he couldn't bring himself to look away.

A jet of blood hit Mike’s face the second the blade cut into Harold's skin, like it had been stamped there. He hadn’t been expecting the initial spurt to be so brief and minimal. The blood then quickly began to escape from the laceration, dripping thickly and shooting small, weak jets down the front of Harold’s rumpled suit, spreading a dark red across the fabric of his dress shirt.

Harold’s eyes flew open, alight with sudden cognition. His body lifted violently against his bonds. He seemed to want to say something. His mouth opened and closed, gaping with no sound coming out. Blood flecked the inside of his lips as he gargled the blood that was filling his esophagus. Mike could see a glistening tube, his trachea, throbbing with every attempt at breath; the cut had not been deep enough to sever it it entirely.

Harold was not going to bleed out, he was going to suffocate.

The blood in Harold's mouth eventually spilled down his chin and he kicked his legs out stiffly. Bubbles foamed around the split trachea after each suck of air. And then, abruptly, Harold stiffened and his head started to dip forward. His entire body twitched once and then stilled. The blood continued to drip readily, creating a growing puddle on the ground under the chair. Some of the blood started to trail rivers to a small drain nearby that greedily sucked it up.

It was finally over when Brennan released Harold’s head. Relief flooded through Mike and he loosened the grip he had had on his chair. Harold wouldn't suffer any more. It was one less horror Mike would have to witness.

Then, Brennan stepped over to the chainsaw and turned it on. It revved nosily, drowning out Kyle's muffled screams.

Mike suddenly knew what would happen next. The calm reasoning came to him almost immediately. He didn't think he would be able to watch.

But Mike did. Mike watched with an odd ease that surprised himself. 

Mike watched as Brennan dismembered Harold’s still bleeding corpse and stuffed the parts into manageable trash bags. 

Mike dutifully watched the bloodied spot long after Brennan had gone, listening to a rising crescendo of noise that was filling his chest with a scream.


	11. Chapter 11

Day 11

The sound of shattering glass woke Mike up.

He smelled Brennan before he saw him and started when the other man was suddenly on top of him. He was puffing out breath as though he had just been running.

Mike refused to look up at him, afraid of what he might meet. He flinched when he felt Brennan's shoulder bump against his mouth. The other man was pressing up against him, like he was trying to push him over despite the chair being bolted to the ground. The stench of cheap cologne filled Mike's nose and his stomach churned unpleasantly. He looked over Brennan's body and waited it out.

Brennan eventually took out his switchblade and pushed between the zip-tie binding Mike's wrist to the chair. Mike stilled when he felt the cold blade touch his skin. Once the zip-tie snapped clean off of both wrists, Brennan cut the ones binding Mike’s ankles.

“Get up.” 

When Mike didn’t immediately comply, Brennan roughly grabbed his upper arm and dragged him up. Mike grunted when he was shoved and stumbled to the ground. Hands and knees stinging, he scrambled to his feet, having fallen on the spot where Harold’s blood still stained the cement. He could see it all again, the chainsaw cutting through thick leg and shoulder meat. There had been so much blood, the drain had been clogged with it. Mike dry heaved.

“Okay. Okay,” Mike panted out past his fingers. Brennan had taken out his revolver and wagged it at the stairs.

“Shut up. Move.”

Mike wordlessly shuffled in the direction Brennan had indicated. He passed Kyle, whose wide-eyed gaze followed the two of them.

Brennan stuck close behind him. Mike could feel the barrel of the revolver touch the back of his head. Though there was probably no need to, Mike lifted his hands up in a show of submission. It was better to play it safe even if the revolver was unloaded like the last time. He didn't want to test the obviously strung-out man. Brennan seemed in a bad state, even more so than usual. It was strange enough that he had untied Mike, despite Mike not expressing any need to relieve himself.

Brennan put a hand on Mike's shoulder and squeezed. They had stopped in front of a door, a foot away from the start of the stairs that lead up to the office and bathroom. He had glanced at it often, wondered if it could possibly serve as an escape route.

“Open it.” 

Mike did as he was told and was met with a long, dark room full of tables and pipes. Some sort of sorting area, perhaps, back when the factory was still up and running. It was distinctly colder in this room than it was in the main factory. There were no windows. The only other thing in the room was the camcorder set up on its tripod, now recording, judging by the steady red light.

He flinched when Brennan roughly pushed him forward and he stumbled further inside. He faced Brennan warily, hands dropping.

Keeping the revolver steady on Mike, Brennan closed the door behind him. The action bathed them in semi-darkness. Mike's eyes took a minute to adjust and when they did Brennan was still hard to make out. Mike swallowed, made more nervous by Brennan's silent demeanor and new, unfamiliar area.

“Why did you take me here?”

“Stand by that table,” Brennan replied expression dark and unfathomable. He indicated with his the revolver, a formless shape, to the table closet to the camera, “Over there.” 

Mike glanced at the table. The camcorder wasn't a good sign. Why had he been separated from Kyle? 

Mike yelped when Brennan fired a bullet into the wall behind him. His ears rang and he doubled over, wincing. He had felt the force it rocket only a couple of inches past him. Brennan directed the revolver back at Mike.

Muffled, past the ringing,"The next one will go in your gut if you don't do as I say. That's a slow and very painful death, Micheal. You don't want that."

There was no point in trying to reason with Brennan, that had never been a real option; Brennan was past the point of recognizing anything but what he felt he needed to do. Mike was terrified, of course, but not that Brennan was going to kill him. It would only be once Kyle—, the train of thought was difficult to complete. Whatever Brennan had planned, he he knew could stomach it if meant surviving just one more day.

Mike did as he was told and waited by the table. He kept his eyes on Brennan the entire time. Brennan did not move, but did lower the revolver.

"There's some fucked up shit in this world, Micheal. There really is. And you already know that I've seen some of it."

Brennan was so quiet, sounding so small and less threatening when Mike couldn't see how warped his features had become.

"You know that they still burn people alive these days? Can you even imagine that? The stench of gasoline and then," Brennan made a wide motion with his hands, "the worst pain imaginable, the smell of nothing but your own cooking carcass. If your lucky enough, the flame's big enough to just suck the breath right from your lungs."

Mike briefly squeezed his eyes shut. He had to remind himself again that Brennan wasn't going to kill him, not for a while. He was starting to sweat.

" _Micheal_." The exasperated way Brennan said his name visited a shiver up Mike's spine. "This world—this fucking world—is all kinds of fucked up. But you wanna know something? It's okay. 'Cause that's what it's all about. Humans can't help but hurt each other, it's all we know how to do. We all like to think we're good, that we would never harm our fellow man without good reason. But when put right up to it, when it's your life against a stranger's—given enough persuasion and we'll skin our own fucking parents to save ourselves. We're monsters. Under all that meat and bone, we're all the same."

Brennan stepped over to Mike who tensed at the slow approach. Brennan's rambling unnerved him. He had grown accustomed to the nonsensical diatribes but not the way Brennan delivered them. The tone Brennan had taken on wasn't crazed, not manic. He was speaking clearly, simply revealing a universal truth that had always been apparent to him.

When Brennan was finally beside him, he felt warm breath on his neck. Gooseflesh rose on his arms at the whisper against the shell of his ear. "That means you and me too. We're the same, Micheal."

Mike was abruptly manhandled down onto the counter, not given an opportunity to even react to the rough handling. Cheek pressed against the rusted steel, he wildly gazed around him. A familiar sensation was welling up in the middle of his chest, like a balloon that would never be deflated. Relax, relax, calm down.He tried to keep his breath even but it was difficult when Brennan's full weight seemed to rest on top of him. Brennan was bent over him, chest pressed against his back. He fidgeted with something, it sounded like he was taking off his belt.

There was a pipe running through the middle of the table, to which Brennan forced his hands on either side of. Brennan bound his hands to it with the belt. Mike only inhaled sharply.

"You know what it all means, right? It means there are no rules on this godforsaken ball of dirt we call a home. You fight only for your life, and no one else. And it's yours to do with as you please. Because at the end of the day, we're alone. And we're all gonna die alone, Micheal. And so...there's no fucking point to any of it. You get it?"

Mike could feel Brennan's muscles under the fabric of his clothes, every heave of breath. Soon after, he felt Brennan begin to tremble against him. Something clicked behind him and Brennan rested the revolver on the table.

Mike's eyes finally fell to the camcorder and he found the red light blinking back at him.

Brennan didn’t speak for a while. He straightened himself a little, easing some of the weight off of Mike, and reached around Mike's waist to begin to undo the buttons of his pants.

The roaring sound came back to Mike, filling his ears with its terrible cadence. 

“No.” 

His own voice was so quiet that Mike wasn’t sure he had even said anything at all. Time seemed to move slowly, as the realization of what Brennan was going to do finally dawned on him. Mike rattled his hands against the pipe but the belt would not give.

“You don’t have to do this Brennan. Brennan— _Derrick_. I know you think you have to but you don't. You don't have to do this.” 

Mike tried to twist away as Brennan begin to undo the buckle of his pants. A overwhelming sense of vulnerably and entrapment suddenly flooded into his body. He gave a wild yank at the belt, ignoring the painful sting it caused as it tightened around his wrists, and attempted to roll over bodily so that he could use his legs against Brennan. Pure adrenaline seemed to course through him, lighting up ever synapse, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Move; it was the only thing that blared past the roaring sound. Whatever fear he had cultivated for brutal retaliation was lost as his body focused on nothing but flight.

It was the last clear thought Mike before the explosion of pain when Brennan grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the table. Mike’s vision blurred and he slumped, gasping in shock. He shook his head as best he could, to to clear his vision. He felt a familiar warmth leaving his nose and the tasted copper on his lips. He choked when a hand clamped around the front of his neck

“No, no. Don’t fucking move. Don’t you fucking say _anything_ ,” Brennan nearly screamed, so close to Mike that he felt the wetness of the other man's open mouth against his cheek. This can't be happening. Jesus fucking Christ this can't be happening to me right now.

“Don’t, don’t—,” Mike groaned out and weakly tried to meet Brennan's eyes.

“You don’t want to do this. I can tell you don't want to. Listen, look at me—!”

Mike bared his teeth when a hand curled in his hair and viciously yanked his head back. 

“I said shut your _fucking_ mouth!”

Mike’s eyes watered. He couldn’t find a way to twist out of Brennan's grasp. He was still reeling after getting a face full of steel, but he had latched on to the thought that if he were somehow able to meet Brennan’s eyes, Brennan wouldn't be able to go through with it. That was why he had told Mike to bend over the table. Mike was sure that was why Brennan had done it— he couldn't bear to look him in the eyes.

“Fuck! No—no,“ Mike ground out when he felt the cool air on his his back as Brennan roughly pushed up his grimy shirt. His pants and underwear were roughly lowered and he flushed with humiliation. Brennan pressed his face back down in to the table and he snuffed out a keening breath. Mike grimaced when Brennan’s fingers dug into his scalp.

Brennan was pumping his cock behind him, the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin reached Mike's ears, and he felt a surge of revulsion radiate through him. He tried to edge away but there was no where to go between Brennan and the table. The adrenaline had long faded, giving way to a boundless horror and helplessness. He was paralyzed by it. There was no escape. There was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.

A scream spilled from his throat when Brennan started to pushed into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from the camcorder, suddenly very aware of the fact that it was recording everything. His body moved on it’s own, trying to scrabble further up onto the table. He was desperate to keep Brennan from splitting him open any more. Mike jumped when Brennan’s clammy forehead came down to graze his damp upper back. Brennan's hand came up to clamp down on Mike's mouth, pressing hard to stifle any further sound that slipped from him.

Mike screwed his eyes up when Brennan thrust came with warning and had him completely inside. Brennan's hand slackened, loosely cupping Mike's chin. Mike felt blood run down his trembling legs.

It was knowing that the camcorder was there, that was the worst part—knowing that others were going to _see_.

Brennan didn't move for a while, only quietly panting, and then he forcibly turned Mike’s head to face the camcorder.

“I’m going to make him watch.” Brennan mouthed against Mike’s ear. Mike's breath hitched. “Just like I was forced to watch. I’m going to force him to watch me take you from him. Ruin you. Just like me. Just like me…”

Brennan trailed off faintly and Mike's confusion was overshadowed when Brennan pulled himself out and roughly pushed back into him. Brennan clamped a hand over his mouth again, muffling his cries. He continued to hold Mike’s face in full view of the camcorder.

The thrusts were uneven and awkward. Brennan had trouble keeping himself hard and had to stop often to work his flagging cock. Mike screamed until he was hoarse, until there was no need for Brennan to keep a hand over his mouth anymore. The pain eventually dulled from the initial penetration and Mike didn't even try to scream anymore.

Mike didn’t bother to struggling as Brennan fucked him. He leveled a blank gaze at the camera, body sliding up and down with each thrust. He tried not to think about Harvey but suddenly couldn’t bring himself to care about anything but Harvey. Would Harvey even be able to look him after this? If he could even just see Harvey, once, it would be enough.

It would be enough. It would be enough. It would be enough. It would be enough.

Brennan’s bloodied hand came up to tilt Mike's chin, smearing Mike's own blood on his face. He had adjusted himself back into Mike then went stiff, jerking once, and collapsed against Mike. He panted against Mike’s motionless form. Mike didn't make a sound, even though it felt like Brennan was suffocating him.

He trembled when Brennan finally pulled out of him, erupting fresh throbbing pain in his insides. Too much blood seemed to be leaking from him, but rather than it frightening him, he felt rooted by it. It meant he was alive. He was _alive._

Brennan didn’t say anything as he stumbled away from Mike, who made no move to run or get up. There would be no point in running, not when he was still bound and Brennan could just pick up revolver and put a bullet between his eyes.

Mike’s steadfast gaze remained on the camcorder and he breathed hard through his nose. As far as he was concerned the camcorder was the only thing left in the room.

Brennan’s hands worked the controls and the light blinked off. 

Mike blinked at the same time, only then realizing that he had been quietly crying. When he finally looked at Brennan, Brennan didn't meet his gaze. Brennan was talking to himself, grabbing his head and biting his trembling lip.

They remained in silence together for a while, the air full of the sharp scent of fresh blood.

Brennan half-dragged Mike back out into the factory floor and practically threw him into the chair. Despite the flare of pain, Mike had said nothing, did nothing. He ignored Kyle who was struggling in his bonds, shouting things past his gag that Mike would never hear.

It was only after Brennan had left in a hurry, grabbing his coat and nearly stumbling out of the factory as though being chased by something, that Mike had noticed one of the zip-tie around his wrist had not been fastened properly and his ankles had been left unbound.


	12. Chapter 12

Day 13

One entire day had passed.

One entire day had passed, but it had felt like the slow churn of a couple of years.

Strangely, Mike didn't feel like recoiling from the memories that surfaced without prompting. He had grown used to them now, thanks to the endless way he was able conjure them up in such vivid detail.

Harold, Kyle—he seen them pushed to their limits, the deluge of every private thing from inside of them. The three of them, experiencing the horrors that they had, had grown closer than if they just remained coworkers. Brennan had showed him how easy it was to break a human being, how easy it was to bend the mind and bones and form something truer to oneself than what had existed before.

But he didn't _thank_ Brennan for it—he was light years from ever even considering that.

Mike felt changed, but not in the way he had expected. The constant terror had dissipated into an easy neutrality. Something about that wasn't right, wasn't normal. But Mike couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

Kyle wouldn't stop staring at him. The other man had given up trying to communicate past his gag and had instead fixated Mike with a stare that demanded to be answered. Mike knew that Kyle had seen Brennan's shoddy work—how one of his hands and both of his ankles were now free.

But his body had badly ached, forcing him to succumb to an exhaustion that often slipped him into unconsciousness. He had to recover first, gain back even just a tenth of his strength. Every time he opened his eyes, he found Kyle's stare there, waiting. It was a stare that lacked urgency, more of a quiet understanding shared between the two of them: I'm ready when you are.

When Brennan finally came back around what must have been mid-day, raving like a lunatic, Mike paid him no mind. The factory had suddenly become of immense interest to him. He kept his eyes on the high windows at the overcast sky. He no longer felt frightened of Brennan, only felt a rippling emotion he couldn't quite put a finger on. Sympathy wasn't the quite right word.

Just pity.

As he listened Brennan stumble around, mumbling and stinking drunk, it became apparent to Mike that the other man was in the final stages of his grief. It was all catching up with him. Brennan was realizing that doing all of this hadn't set anything right. No matter what he did, he would never be able to stop the flood of images of his wife and daughter being tortured to death.

"What the fuck are you staring at?"

Brennan was addressing Kyle directly now, words more like a roar than an actual inquiry. Mike watched him yank Kyle's gag out and Kyle seemed to, right then and there, lose his mind as well. 

"You're pathetic," Kyle exclaimed. His smile was ghastly, missing teeth. But his ruined body in no way affected the strength or cruelty of his words.

Brennan gaped at him, incredulous, no doubt finding the outburst unexpected. Brennan's silence didn't deter Kyle; Mike could see the veins on his neck bulge as he continued, tone thoroughly venomous. He had almost forgotten how easy it was for Kyle to get under someone's skin—a perfect trait for his future prospects as a lawyer.

"What do think they would think of you, if they saw you now? What would they think, seeing you fall so low. You're no better then the men who raped and murdered them. You're nothing but a murderer and rapist!" Fear radiated off of Kyle like it would a cornered animal, but he nonetheless continued his tirade.

There was a reason Kyle was doing this, Mike suddenly realized. He met Kyle's eyes and his suspicions were confirmed by the anxious glance Kyle shot at him. Kyle was attempting to distract Brennan. This would be the final act that would lay itself out now—somehow Mike knew this. He knew it with the same sort of cool assurance Brennan had as he lectured Mike about the true nature of humanity.

Kyle's words infuriated Brennan in a monstrous way. He lumbered towards Kyle, drawing out his switchblade, and shoved the blade into Kyle’s open mouth. Brennan's hand muffled Kyle's screams.

Mike tugged at his bound wrist. The zip-tie pressed tight against his skin. He lifted his freed feet briefly. All it took was to do it once and something welled up inside of him. A wildfire of energy that almost took his breath away. He could move, he could get out of this chair. All of this could be over in a matter of seconds. But first, he needed to move.

He pulled his elbow back, squishing the fingers of his hand together. He twisted his wrist, trying to stretch out the plastic. Pain was beginning to angrily flare up as he did this, small bones separating as they were pushed to their limits. But the pain, once unbearable to him, was now nothing to Mike— it was only something that made him feel more alive, more receptive to the idea of continuing on.

Kyle’s gurgles were loud, Mike looked up and then hurriedly set his attention back to his wrist. Kyle mouth was full of blood and Brennan had brought over the chainsaw. The sound of it revving only fueled Mike’s intense focus. His entire world became the zip-tie, his wrist, and the chair's arm. 

He clenched his teeth as the pain intensified. He dragged his arm back roughly, pulling, pulling, pulling until a dull snap sounded and another, and another. The white-hot agony that erupted up and down his wrist and arm encouraged him. His skin curled around the plastic as it was torn and warped past the point of return and his fingers folded over one another unnaturally. A final crack sounded out and he finally dragged his hand out, more or less in tact.

He was free.

He stood, wobbling, thoughts racing too fast to catch a hold of at first. It all came together soon enough. He knew what exactly to do, he had had a whole day to think about it, to mull over it.

His standing position went unnoticed by Brennan whose entire focus remained on Kyle. Brennan had forgotten the chainsaw in favor of his switchblade again. Kyle’s arm, now detached from his body, was still bound to the chair.

The shattering sound that had woken him yesterday had belonged to a breaking bottle of liquor. The big shards were still there. They had gleamed at Mike whenever a faint beam of light had penetrated the factory's dusty windows, reminding him of what he would need to do, pulling him towards them.

Mike stepped over to the scattered pieces, took a knee, and selected the largest one. He was acting on autopilot now. He rose, turned on his heel, and made a beeline for Brennan.

Brennan did not notice Mike until Mike collided into him. The switchblade clattered to ground and Mike lifted the glass shard high above his head. Brennan turned to him, shocked, exposing his neck. Mike's grip tightened and he felt the shard slice into the palm of his hand. It was a good feeling.

Mike drove the shard into Brennan's neck and they both toppled down to the ground. He straddled Brennan who was now choking, blood bubbling out from his mouth. The glass twitched along with the major artery that had been impacted in his neck—removing it would cause Brennan to bleed out.

Mike looked down at him, eyes wide, unbelieving of what had actually happened. It was a strange sight to see Brennan so bloodied.

Brennan seemed surprised as well, not fulling comprehending what was taking place either.

And then.

And then Brennan smiled, eyes alight with an emotion that rose a visceral fury in Mike. 

"Just…like…me,” Brennan gargled, teeth stained red, looking like he was so fucking proud.

Only breathing hard, Mike grabbed the shard and ripped it out of Brennan's throat. Brennan’s eyes bugled and the arterial spray from his neck squirted across Mike’s face. Ignoring the blood, Mike drove the glass into Brennan’s neck again, ejecting another controlled arch of bright blood.

The shard soon found its place in Brennan’s chest and Mike drew it out, lifting it above his head. He was drunk on the feeling of slamming the shard over and over again into Brennan’s lifeless body and torn up chest. The blood was still warm, despite Brennan being dead—that was enough for Mike. He stopped at thirty-two stabs, only because his arm was tired. He made sure to count while he was doing it but he wasn't entirely sure why he needed to.

The wet shard clattered to the ground as he brought a shaky hand up to his face, further smearing blood there. His head was spinning.

Somewhere behind him, Kyle coughed. Mike unsteadily rose from Brennan’s mangled body. He slipped and skidded on the blood that seemed to cover the whole factory floor as he made his way over to Kyle.

Blood leaked as readily from Kyle’s mouth as it had from Brennan's. His fresh amputation still bled profusely, spreading a puddle on the ground. Uncaring, Mike knelt into it and clasped Kyle's shoulder.

“Shh, hey. Hey, it’s going to be fine. You're okay, man. You're okay. I promised you that, didn’t I? We're going to get out of here, Kyle.” 

That wasn't right. Mike knew this even as he said the words. None of this was going to be fine. He had lied to Kyle. He had lied to himself. He had forsaken Harold. He could see it in Kyle's eyes, though the look wasn't accusing.

Kyle shifted a little, jawing at the air, making as if he wanted to say something. His mutilated hand briefly lifted, like he wanted to bring it to Mike's cheek, and then dropped. And then he was gone.

The factory was silent once more, save for the sound of trickling liquid as blood flowed down the drain.

Mike reverently rose. He felt completely calm, despite tasting Brennan’s blood on his tongue and being soaked in both Brennan and Kyle's blood. He blindly wandered past Brennan’s corpse and the constant stain of Harold's blood and headed to the exit. There was nothing left from him here. He would never have to see this place ever again.

He stopped only once, looking up at the rotating blades of the industrial fan up near the ceiling. He didn't feel like taking in the sight of the mess behind him one last time, there would be no point. 

The doors of the factory opened far easier than he had expected them to, the scraping sound conjuring up memories that, once more, put themselves on repeat.

There was a light rain coming down from the overcast sky and, through the odor of polluted sea water Mike could the smell of wet asphalt and damp soil.

He held the throbbing shoulder of his injured hand and closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the sensation of the icy drops on his face and body. It was cold—his teeth began to chatter.

Harold, Kyle, and Brennan seemed so far away from him now, history that had happened a long time ago. None of that mattered now. He was free—that was all, that was all. 

Mike gingerly reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card that the detective had given him. The warm white linen was stained with a few drops of blood.

He stepped further out into the empty shipyard, looking around. The sound of the sea was at his side.

There was only on thing on his mind now; Harvey. Harvey. Harvey. Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.


	13. Chapter 13

“I strongly advise against watching this one.”

Harvey lifted his head up from his hands. His face felt tight after an impromptu nap, hardly long enough to really be considered one. He must've had a million of those kind of momentary lapses while working towards senior partner. And what did all of that matter now? he thought bitterly. All that power and there was nothing he could do with it here.

He felt physically drawn, like he had been climbing a steep hill for days and was experiencing the jelly-legged numbness that followed after finally reaching the top. The fluctuation between half-awake states and adrenaline-soaked awareness was maddening. The only thing that remained consistent was the clench of his stomach, begging for more than what the vending machine food and drink offered.

When the first disk arrived at his doorstep, staying in his penthouse no longer seemed like a viable option. This was not because Harvey was afraid of Brennan but because he felt like he was suffocating. Keeping himself locked up prevented him from dedicating himself to the detective's inquires and having access to any new information about the case. He had barricaded himself in one of the department's interrogation rooms, intent to be there if a breakthrough ever came. And it was there that he remained, in his rumpled suits and with a wall of work piled up around him. He didn't bother with ties or vests, usual meticulous interest in his professional appearance long forgone.

Harvey knew all the detectives and officers by name now. They all looked at him in the same way, agitating him. _Pity_ —he didn't need their pity. He didn't need anything from them but for them to do their fucking jobs.

Donna had stopped coming to see him after bluntly voicing her refusal to encourage his behavior. Harvey had feigned an anger that he really hadn't the strength to maintain. He knew Donna was right, she always was.

Just meeting Donna's pained look was enough to to shame him before she had even opened her mouth. Yes, he knew he shouldn't be there—it wasn't, it wasn't healthy. Harvey knew it was irrational, unequivocally stupid. He was punishing himself, forcing himself to watch the disks Brennan had sent. He forced himself to look at what he had condemned three innocent men to. For it was an integral part of his self-flagellation to cement the fact that others were suffering because of his carelessness.

The detectives had allowed Harvey to watch every new piece of footage that came in; he gave them his cooperation on the condition that he was able to do so. They often tried to convince him otherwise but their words had less of an effect on him than Donna's. He was convinced that his every waking moment should be dedicated to thinking about Harold, Kyle, and Mike. This was not for Brennan's satisfaction—he owed the three of them his full attention.

When Harvey saw the footage of Mike for the first time, terrified and bound, Harvey had felt like throwing the laptop into the wall. He used his fists, instead, on the wall out back, shredding his knuckles and staining the bricks. It was only after that footage that his stay at the department became, more or less, permanent. He watched the footage of Mike over and over again, eyes searching the bright screen for clues: Tell me something Mike. Tell me something. Let me know where you are. Talk to me. Talk to me, Mike.

But seeing Mike's swollen and bruised face brought Harvey to a state of complete helplessness. The was no relief for the maddening urge to do something, _anything_ , to keep Mike from showing up in the footage again. Harvey felt himself slipping, knowing very well there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening.

“Let me see it," Harvey very calmly repeated. He curled a hand over his ribs, leaning forward, to hide the tremor that had visited it. Please, don’t let it be Mike. Don’t let it be Mike this time. “I deserve to—"

“Mr. Specter,” Detective Vicker interjected. “ With all due respect, there’s no point. There's no evidence. It won't bring us closer to finding them.”

Harvey felt the violent rage well up inside him again, fire in his blood, and had to fight to kept himself from sucker punching the other man. His teeth clenched and he kept his eyes on Detective Langely, who had first addressed him. The two of them were careful not to show anything on their faces, on account of him. Picking up this incensed Harvey.

“I want to see it. I’m not gonna ask again.”

He ignored the looks the two exchanged. Langely set the disk case on the table and hesitated, before taking his hand off of it. 

"I've seen guys under me, above me, do this, Harvey. I've seen them destroy themselves like this. When you do shit like this, your head starts to mess with you, you start to lose control over your thoughts— _how_ you think. You start to do things that you think might help but don't. And doing the wrong things just drives you deeper into the dark. And the less you can see, the worse choices you'll make."

Harvey let the words wash over him, staring instead at the one-way glass. Langely shook his head. The two detectives then rose, nothing more to be said, and exited the interrogation room. The sound of the door being shut brought Harvey back to the present. 

Harvey stared at the disk. He still had a chance to just get up at leave, go back to penthouse and leave the disk where it was on the table. But Donna's wilted look faded from his mind's eye when he looked at the disk. He reached out to touch it and rested his fingers on the case. The fear of missing even a second of what was happening drove him to his almost perverse need.

He opened the laptop on the table, popped out the tray, and put the disk in. He hovered the cursor over the untitled AVI file, blinking rapidly, and then clicked it. 

What he saw nearly broke him. He had to grab the table, pause, take a lap around the room, before he could finish it. He watched the footage until the light had left Mike’s eyes and left someone there Harvey could hardly recognize. The video abruptly clicked off but Mike's tear-streaked face remained stark in his mind. Harvey was sick in the wastebasket, kneeling, gripping it with white, shaking hands. He could hear nothing but the sound of static and felt like the entire room was rocking back and forth, putting him off balance when he took to his feet from his knees.

“Fuck.” Harvey folded his scabbed hands over his mouth and dry heaved. He felt as though the breath were being taken from his lungs, a jab to his ribs every time he tried. It was replaying now, the worst parts of the footage: Mike's blood on Brennan's hand, Mike's private and ugly hurt sounds—sounds that would haunt Harvey for the rest of his life. Brennan had looked at the screen, right into Harvey's eyes, and had actually fucking smiled. "Fuck him. Goddamn him. Fuck him. Fuck. Sick bastard. Sick bastard."

The detectives eventually came back. Harvey hadn't moved from his hunched position. The laptop was still open, video prompting to be played again. Langely shut the laptop and placed a styrofoam cup of fresh coffee in front of Harvey. The smell of it turned his stomach.

"We got that today. The sick fuck's released a video every two days. That makes five, so far—" Langely paused and then took a seat across from Harvey.

"We've sent out several teams and we've ruled out at least fifty different locations; that's based on what we've been able to glean from the video. We're narrowing it down, but we're stretched thin and we're slowing down. Meanwhile, Brennan is speeding up."

Langely leaned forward, folding his hands on the table.

"Harvey, I need you to think very hard. Is there anything, anything at all that you've seen in the footage that could give us something. Maybe there's something Mike is trying to tell you, something he might have shared through his face, something only you'd be able to catch?"

Harvey kept his eyes on the laptop, knowing if he opened his mouth nothing good would come out.

"Harvey. I'm not going to mince this: we're running out of time. Brennan is becoming more and more unhinged. Either we're about to catch a break and Brennan is going to slip up, or the next video's going be worse."

" _Worse._ " Harvey's eyes finally lifted, his expression hard. He nodded down to the laptop. "Worse than _that_?"

"You know I meant, Harvey. Do you want them all to die? You want Mike to die? Is that what you want?"

"Take it easy," Vicker suddenly murmured, weary. "No one wants that."

Both Harvey and Langely turned their heads at Vicker's unexpected statement. Harvey noticed, suddenly, how tired they now looked. They had been able to hide it for a while but the footage was wearing them down as well. Their tiptoeing mistrust was only borne from Harvey's history of cooperation. They wanted to find Mike and the others as much as he did.

"I'm not keeping anything from you," Harvey whispered, drained. His hands curled into fists and he rested them on the table, leaning forward in his seat. "I've told you everything I know, everything about the case and Brennan. There's nothing—," Harvey choked before he could finish and directed a shuddering sob to the table.

The silence was abruptly broken when a young officer exploded into the room. 

Langely half-turned in his seat to the officer, irritated. "We're in the middle of something. Who gave you permission to just barge in here?"

“Detective, there's a call for you.”

"Take a message."

"Sir, it's..." The officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His face was pale. "It's—it's a guy claiming to be Micheal Ross. He knows things about case we haven't given to the press."

Harvey's head snapped up at Mike's name. Hope flickered briefly inside him but was overshadowed by a sense of unease. Langely glanced at him and then left with the officer.

Harvey had been aware that time was running out since the first video with Mike, looking like he was just a boy. And now Havery couldn't fight off the image of Brennan whispering against Mike's face, the way he touched him, and had brutally forced himself into him.

Why had he let Mike go that night? Why did those things have to be the last thing Mike had heard him say?

Langely returned bringing a handset with him. He connected it to the wall and pressed a couple of buttons on the base. Harvey could see how shaken he was by the messy way he went about his task. 

"...Mike?"

The room was quiet as the detective listened to whoever was on the other line. His eyes found Harvey's and then he held out the reciever to Harvey.

"He wants to talk to you."

Mechanically, Harvey rose and took the offered receiver. The smooth object felt strange in his hand. He was aware that the detective's eyes were on him. He pressed it to his ear and swallowed once.

"Hello?”

There was only heavy breathing in response. A chill ran up Harvey's spine. Had Brennan taken the phone from Mike?

“Harvey.”

“Mike.”

Harvey’s knees nearly buckled when Mike's voice came over the line. It was hard to keep from saying his name. “Mike. Mike, where are you?”

The heavy breathing continued and then hitched.

“It’s really good to hear—hear your voice." Came Mike's strained reply

Harvey’s grip tightened on the phone. He rested a hand on the table to steady himself.

“It's good to hear your voice, too, Mike. Listen. Is Brennan there? Is he making you speak to me right now?”

“Brennan?” Mike asked as if he had no idea who that was. “Brennan. Brennan—”

“Mike. Can you tell me where you are right now? Are you safe?”

“Harvey. The detectives...would you tell them to leave the room, please.” 

Harvey flicked his gaze between the detectives and hesitated. “Why?”

“Please tell them to leave. I can wait.”

Harvey looked at the detectives again and then tucked the receiver under his chin, covering the other end of the earpiece with a hand.

“I want to talk to him alone,” Harvey lied.

Vicker seemed to object but Langely nodded. He held up five fingers and then the two of them left the room. 

“They’re gone,” Harvey murmured once the door closed. He slowly settled back down into his chair. “What do you want to talk about?”

The resulting silence stretched on for so long that Harvey feared something might’ve happened to Mike. Was Brennan orchestrating this? Even now was there a gun to Mike’s head?

“I've been thinking about something Donna told me—how is she?"

"She's fine Mike. She wants to see you safe, like everyone else."

"I'm going to ask you you a question. Are you willing to be honest with me, this time?"

"Mike," Harvey began, unable to help how desperate he sounded. "Mike, what are—"

"Do you love me, Harvey?”

The ticking clock in the room was suddenly quite loud to Harvey. He opened his mouth, lips trembling, and then closed it. Why is he asking me that right now? He groped for something to say but Mike had completely thrown him, driven his ability to think out of his body.

What exactly had Donna told Mike? Harvey's mouth went dry. She would have never—it couldn't have been something she had said. Mike had probably worked it out himself; Harvey supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, the kid was smart. Hearing the words from Mike's mouth had a strange effect over him. Harvey felt as though he were falling apart and coming back together at the same time.

“Mike. Tell me where you are.”

“Do you love me, Harvey?”

“Mike.”

“I know I already said it, but I really am glad to hear your voice.”

“...Mike.”

“If I come back, do you think you could finally treat me to that dinner you promised?”

Harvey's eyes were starting to get gritty. "Yeah. When you get back, I'll treat you."

"That'd be great." Mike's breath was still loudly uneven but he managed a laugh.

Harvey tried to change the subject, uncomfortable.

“You know, the detectives could still be here. How are you so sure that they left?”

“Harvey, you wouldn’t lie to me. I trust you.”

Harvey felt as though he were physically wounded by the statement. An ache leaked out across in his chest and made him shiver. 

Softly, “Harvey.”

Harvey hung his head and pressed his lips into a firm line. Hearing Mike say his name was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. He didn't want him to stop. Knowing Mike was alive, hearing him breathe, dragged the tears he had managed to keep at bay for so long. He let a harsh sob slip out into the receiver.

"Mike."

“Harvey. Listen I—.” Mike’s voice cracked. It was a shuddering sound that Harvey had almost mistaken for interference in the line. “I think this is it...for me.” 

Harvey stood up, knocking his chair over. The detectives pooled back into the room, alerted by the sound or because his time had run out; Harvey didn't care. Nothing else mattered now but Mike.

“We’re tracking the call. Keep him talking Harvey. Keep him on the line."

“Wait. What do you mean Mike? What are you talking about?”

“This is it, for _me_ , Harvey,” Mike repeated nonsensically. “I don’t think…I’m not, _me_ …”

The line clicked off just as an officer came in and announced that Mike was using a payphone and it had been successfully tracked to one of the abandoned shipyards by the coast. Anything else said was lost on Harvey. The shouting and flurry of movement around him was muffled to him as they confirmed the validity and organized their team. He felt the detective's hands on his shoulder, multiple times, squeezing it—heard their reassuring voices.

He blinked and then he was alone.

Harvey stood stock-still with the receiver still to his ear, listening to the dial tone. He threw it to the side, hearing it and the base clatter to the tiled floor.

He collapsed in the chair, holding his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

* * *

"He was unresponsive when they found him but he's stable now. We'll watch him for a few weeks, make sure there's nothing we missed, and then he'll need to be evaluated when he's well enough—"

Harvey numbly listened to the doctor.

He hadn't been able to talk to or see Mike for a week; not since the detectives and their team had converged on the point where the call signal had come from. Harvey had returned home, kept his television on, and had barely slept.

Due to the breakthrough in the case, Jessica had allowed Harvey to extend his leave of absence, rare gesture he ordinarily would have refused. Now, he welcomed the chance to be left to his own devices. Knowing that Mike was safe now influenced every decision he made. He knew that he would pay for it later; Jessica would remember the choices he had made in a time of crisis, how much of them were for Mike.

He had now taken up residence in a lobby on the same floor Mike was. Though he wanted to be as close to Mike as was possible, he hadn't been able to actually bring himself to go into Mike's room. He found he couldn't go in, not yet—not when the images from the disks were fresh in his mind. Not if he wasn't sure if he'd be able to ever look into Mike's eyes, terrified of what he might find there. Because, goddamn it, he at least owed it to Mike to look him in the eye.

Any joy felt over Mike's rescue was tempered by the deaths of Kyle and Harold. He had hoped that all of them would be rescued, that there wouldn't be any more bodies to join Gregory's. Harvey would attend both funerals, he kept the programs the family sent out with him at all times. Kyle wouldn't have an open casket and Harold's family would bury an empty casket. And Harvey felt equal mix of shock and failure about their fates. The case felt like it hadn't really ended.

Brennan was found dead at the scene. The condition that Kyle had been in and Harold's absence led to the understanding that Mike had killed him, later confirmed by Mike. A number of disappointments for the detectives stemmed from Brennan's execution. It meant Harold's body may never be found; the entire shipyard had been turned over as well as any other possible locations with no results. And any potential leads on the remnants of Brighton _Bratva_ members had died with Brennan.

The only disappointment Harvey felt was that he hadn't been able to kill Brennan himself.

Harvey chewed at the rim of the styrofoam cup in his hand, slouched in his chair in the lobby. It was midday, the warm sunlight came down on his back from the big windows that lined the walls. Nurses and other hospital staff and visitors passed by often. At the same time, he was checking his phone for any work related emails but it was an empty action. He was really working up the courage to visit Mike today.

He had spoken briefly with Mike's grandmother, Edith Ross, and Jenny Griffith, Mike's self-professed girlfriend, when they came together to visit Mike. Edith was every bit as quick-witted, despite her age, as he had heard from Mike, though there was a deep well of grief in her eyes that pierced through Harvey after she had left Mike's room with Jenny. He wondered how much they knew of his involvement in the case. But Harvey knew it was neither the time nor the place to let loose his torrent of confused and unnecessary apologies.

The paralegal, Rachel Zane, visited as well. Harvey had always been aware of the attraction between her and Mike—it was reflected on her features now, wan and eyes wet with tears. Harvey was only a little bothered by the fact that she had only visited once and had never come back.

Donna had come plenty of times to visit Mike. She never told him how Mike was doing apart from vague mentions of his physical condition, urging him to go and see Mike himself. But she had held Harvey's hand after a visit, once, and squeezed it will shaking her head. She didn't answer him when he had asked if Mike would even want to see him.

"Is he awake?"

The nurse leveled a startled look at him. Harvey had been standing near the door, just out of sight of what was inside, waiting, working out what he wanted to say, working out what expression he should wear. He felt like turning back around, felt like he already had.

"...Yes. Are you a relative?"

"I'm his boss." Harvey twitched his head to the side, grimacing at the choice of words. "I mean...we're friends. Do you need some identification?"

The nurse took in Harvey's visitor's badge and shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Spector. Edith said she's been trying to get you in to visit Mike for a while. She'll be happy to know you finally came. You can go in, if you'd like. He just finished lunch."

Harvey nodded curtly to the nurse who sanitized his hands and continued on his way.

Harvey dragged himself to the open door way. One more step and there was Mike.

There was nothing attached to him like Harvey had thought there would be; no IV drip and the heart monitor had been turned off. The television was playing, muted—a football game. Football? Harvey wondered, bemused.

On the over bed table there was a tray of half-eaten food and cup. On both bed side tables were cards and flowers—some of them starting to dry out and others still bright and colorful against the white backdrop of the hospital's wallpaper. The room was well lit; the shades open to allow sunlight into the room, the window open to let a breeze in. Harvey wasn't expecting it, the warmth of the room, the normality of everything.

His breathing faltered when he finally landed on Mike.

Mike was looking at something out the window, breathing evenly and looking peaceful despite his outward appearance. His wrist and hand were in a cast, resting on top of his lap. The sheets were pushed down to the foot of the bed, showing off his gray hospital socks. There were livid marks scattered along his legs, his collar bone, fading on his cheekbones, and some around his neck, splotches of yellow and gray smudges. A scab fell across the bridge of his nose, another by his eyebrow and under his eye.

But under all of this, it was still Mike. His was hair a little grown out, stubble unkempt, but there was that same, boyish look that had so often prevented him being taken seriously in spite of his formidable mind.

Harvey must have made a sound because Mike was now staring at him. Looking into Mike's eye mainlined electricity into Harvey's spine.

Mike regarded him with a blank look, as though he couldn't recognize him. Then, there was a flash of recognition that suddenly twitched onto his features and Harvey tensed up when Mike lifted his good hand and rested it on the bed's railing, facing Harvey fully. The railing shook with his grip.

“Harvey,” Mike greeted, his voice so damn soft and happy. 

Something snapped in Harvey. He fell to his knees, hand sliding down the wall in a failed attempt to keep himself standing, and heaved.

“Mike. I'm sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve never, never. I-I never wanted...never wanted—”

“—It’s okay.”

Harvey’s head jerked up at the easy reply and his blood ran cold.

A stranger was sitting in Mike’s hospital bed, wearing Mike’s face, smiling Mike’s smile.

“It’s okay Harvey. I forgive you."


	14. Chapter 14

Jessica crossed her legs and appraised Harvey.

She was wearing something white, designer, the fabric made near blinding by all the sunlight that was spilling in through her office's windows and over the two of them. She was striking as always but Harvey's thoughts were turned, rather, to why she had summoned him.

He'd have known if it concerned the case he was currently working on and Jessica wasn't in the habit of checking up on him if it didn't warrant her time. Word reached her pretty quick if there was problem but he had his case under control, so it was for another reason entirely that she wished to talk to him. It was the first sit-down she had requested since Mike had returned to Pearson Hardman, four months ago.

“So, how's the kid?” she finally asked.

The offhanded inquiry did not come off as much of a surprise. No more relaxed than when he had first come in, Harvey leaned into the couch and slung one arm over the back. It was probably a good idea to keep his outward disposition as much the opposite of how he really felt as possible.

“He's doing well. Adjusting. He asked me not to go easy on him, so I’ve complied.” Harvey averted his eyes for a moment before continuing, “Should I have forced him to stay home?”

“He wants to work. Let him work,” Jessica replied evenly. Her eyes were on him, searching, but for exactly what he wasn't sure. She indicated with a small tilt of her head in his direction. “And you?”

“And me?”

“Do I need to force you to stay home?” Jessica’s statement made him tense up reflexively. He wondered how much she had been able to read off of him since he had entered her office. He had shown weakness, repeatedly, in front of her during the entire Brennan incident. It would not be easy to gain her trust back.

His exasperation was somewhat genuine. “I’m fine, Jessica.”

"Because you always mean that when you say it," Jessica countered, her ruby-lipped smile coy.

Harvey was quick to rise to the challenge. "What, you think I'm lying about Mike?"

Jessica's brows lifted, though in a lazy way she often did while faking shock. 

"Oh, quite the contrary. I've heard good things about Mike coming from out there in the circuit. Already built a bit of a reputation for himself; a worthy protege of the great Harvey Specter."

She was right. Since returning, Mike had diligently worked with Harvey on winning a particularly large case for the firm. He had even completed several pro bono cases entirely on his own; these small victories, though lacking in glamor, were valuable court experience that would serve Mike well later on in his career. There was still more he needed to learn, of course, things that would only come with time. Still, Mike had grown quite a bit, all on his own, and Harvey couldn't help but feel proud.

"And he's wearing better suits," Harvey commented wryly.

"Oh? The student becomes the master?"

Harvey spared her a smile. "Now where have I heard that before?"

Jessica sighed. Her smile remained steadfast but the sigh was done in a way that seemed as though she had tried of the exchange. When she spoke again her voice was mellow, but her words were loaded.

“You need to tell me if there's a problem. I can’t afford any surprises right now, Harvey. Not when the firm's just getting back up on its feet. I want you to understand that, right here, right now.”

"Jessica—"

"Please don't interrupt me Harvey. I just need your word."

There was no denying Jessica when she wanted something. Harvey suddenly felt quite exposed under her gaze, like he had been found out. He knew Jessica had had little contact with Mike since his return, except to compliment him on his work or to get briefings from him when Harvey wasn't immediately around. But in those few and far moments, she might have been able to see what Harvey had in the hospital room. And perhaps this was why she let Harvey's flirtations roll off of her like water on down.

Harvey nodded morosely. Finding the action satisfactory, Jessica rose and returned to her desk. Harvey took this as his cue to leave and stood as well, buttoning his suit jacket. When he came to the door, Jessica’s voice accosted him.

“And Harvey?”

He turned to face her.

“I don’t think it would be wise to think of him as the same person he was before all of this...no one would be.”

* * *

Jessica's words bounced around in his head as Harvey headed back to his office at a brisk pace. After speaking to her, he now felt much worse than he had before.

Damn it. His hand came up to rub at his mouth, trying to wipe away whatever expression was on his face that might've reflected his thoughts. He should've known that Jessica would have figured it out by now.

Harvey had not tried to deliberately hide Mike's condition from her—there was no way he could have any control over that that. He had only hoped that, once she did discover the change Mike had undergone, she would leave it in his hands. Whenever she brought something to his attention, it was only because she felt threatened by it. Harvey loathed the irony of the fact that she was now realizing that Mike's presence at the firm was potentially damaging to her, though for the wrong reason.

He arrived just as Donna came back to her desk. On seeing him she paused, standing in front of her computer, and rested her hand on her hip.

"Harvey, I know you've been blowing off our good friend Mr. Werner." 

Harvey lifted his eyes to the ceiling at the mention of his client's name. Werner was one of the overly familiar types of clientele that he often had to manage; keeping informal meetings to a minimum was imperative if he didn't want them getting big ideas that would end up going nowhere. If it was one thing they liked to do it was talk—about themselves, their politics—and go golfing. Harvey had a mean drive but there was only so much of those outfits and those cramped little carts that he could take.

"Come on Donna you know how he is," Harvey implored. He slipped both of his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "Last time I had to talk him out of funneling heaps of cash into some net-less, no-name start up. Remember? He said, and I quote: 'It's gonna be the next Microsoft'. I'm starting to think I should bait Louis into nabbing him from me. Actually, it would be fun watching him fall over himself for it."

"Well, there's only so many different ways I can tell him that you're out for the day."

Harvey drew to attention at the innocently spoken statement.

"Wait, what exactly have you been telling him?" Harvey demanded warily.

Donna's look was impish. She kept her eyes locked with his as she settled down into her chair. 

"Ooh nothing _that_ bad."

"Fantastic," came Harvey's long-suffering response. He trailed off when he noticed someone sitting on the couch in his office. Seeing the familiar swatch of brown hair, he felt a tingle of unease trickle down his spine.

"How long—?"

"A couple of minutes ago," Donna cut in and then dropped her gaze to her keyboard. She began typing, set on her task.

Harvey hesitated before stepping into his office.

"Mike," he stated, voice strong despite the way his gut was lurching unpleasantly.

Harvey had to fight to keep himself from breaking eye-contact when Mike partially turned in his seat to look at him from over the back of the couch.

Mike had almost fully, physically, recovered. There was a constant tired look that drew his face a little, a slight pronouncement in the bags under his eyes, but otherwise he seemed healthy. There was only a small, unobtrusive cast, now, covering his wrist and hand. But Mike's eyes, his eyes were the same; Harvey found them hard to meet for long periods of time.

"Hey Harvey. I got those numbers you wanted."

The words cut through Harvey's troubled thoughts. He didn't bother masking his surprise.

"That was fast."

"Well, I know a guy."

"What, that IT guy a few floors down or up?"

"Well, yeah. But it's more mysterious when I say 'I know a guy'".

Harvey sat down at his desk while unbuttoning his suit jacket and shot Mike an unimpressed look.

"And how long have you been waiting to say those words in that particular order?"

"Oh come on, can't you let me have it this time? I mean, you get to make clever one liners _all_ the time." Mike emphasized "all" by brandishing his hands

The conversation had flowed so easily, had come so naturally to Harvey that he momentarily forgot about his prior unease. But he faltered at Mike's hollow smile, the way he looked at Harvey with eyes that could only be described as cold. This was not the same Mike, as Jessica had warned. The man sitting on his couch knew what Mike would say, knew how to move like Mike—but it was as though he were wearing a skin that didn't belong to him.

Harvey rubbed his chin and then scooted forward to take a look at the files Mike had brought for him. He took some time to go over the digits, finding everything in order, before opening his mouth to speak again.

“So, I know I'm not allowed to ask about it but—”

“—Counseling is, intimate.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Well, it’s nice to talk about you with someone new.”

Harvey balked. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

"Maybe." 

Mike leaned back into the couch after speaking and observed Harvey in a very hawk-like way that made Harvey's skin crawl. Harvey closed the file and tapped it with a finger, pride the only thing keeping him from breaking Mike's steady gaze. Harvey tried to convince himself, against his instincts, that nothing was wrong with the man across from him. It was just Mike, after all. 

He indicated to Mike with only a single outstretched finger 

"I just want you to know, Mike, that if something's ever wrong...you can tell me. You know that right?"

Mike did not react immediately to the statement. When he did finally respond, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together.

"Hey, let's hang out—after this case is over." It sounded nothing like a suggestion and Harvey swallowed. He was careful to keep up the rapport, rather than reveal how he truly felt about where the conversation was going. 

"Sure Mike. You wanna have a slumber party?"

Mike almost looked like himself again at Harvey's quip, lips twitching up in a less empty way. But then his smile dropped.

"Would your place be okay?"

Harvey felt compelled to say "no"—it would be the right thing to do. He could have said it and ended it there.

Since Mike's return, he had been uncomfortably aware that Mike knew how he felt about him.

Harvey had been amused by the attraction at first—how easy it was for him make Mike's eyes go big with wonderment, how quick Mike was in recognizing his film references he often peppered into conversations. But it peaked when Mike proved himself more than capable of holding his own and with a tenacity and a thirst for winning that had matched Harvey's. He wasn't sure when it exactly happened. When was the exact moment that he had connected seeing Mike with the pool of warmth that formed in his belly? When had Mike started to haunt his bed? How many times had Harvey shuddered awake, drenched in sweat, after touching soft-chapped lips, after sweeping his hands under a cotton shirt to press into the warm, flat stomach beneath?

Mike was his equal in many respects. And Harvey found that he cared about Mike, for as much as he said the contrary—this had both confused and agitated Harvey.

Winning was always a priority, something he had long treasured, one of the few things that he treasured. Working at the DA under Cameron had only encouraged the streak in him further. You couldn't change things if you didn't win, you couldn't stop from being hurt if you didn't win. He had buried his empathy as best he could, knowing full-well that it would be the end of his career if he ever let it dictate his actions. Bleeding hearts never lasted long, they always ran out of steam—he had personally seen it happen and damned if he was ever going to let it happen to him.

Compassion and working at Pearson Hardman were two mutually exclusive things. But Mike's fresh energy, his youth, had reminded Harvey so much of himself before he had become bitter. Mike reignited something in Harvey he had thought he had long lost; interest in making things _right_ in the world. While Mike could be naive, Harvey could still appreciate what other man provided for him. Mike was an anchor, not in the sense of dragging Harvey down but in keeping him rooted.

Mike had exploited a weakness of his; most of his serious lovers had kept him on his toes and could match his strengths. But he had been hard-pressed to act any further on these feelings without knowing if Mike felt even a shred of it back. Putting a friendship that Harvey immensely enjoyed in jeopardy were odds that were too high, even for him.

Mike has just asked if he could come over. After dropping in, unannounced, on several occasions, it is the first time Mike has asked his permission. Though there were warning bells blaring in his head, another part of him felt a crippling longing.

Now, Mike looked at him as though he could see right through him, see all it, and for the first time since he was a child, Harvey felt a mix of shame and vulnerability.

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" the words slipped out unintentionally. Harvey held his tongue too late.

The question did not have an immediate, outward effect on Mike. Almost as if only just then understanding what Harvey meant, Mike looked away to gaze out of the office's windows.

"Jenny and I broke up." A pause. The statement hung heavily in the air. Harvey kept his mouth shut. "We decided that staying together—it wasn't right for either of us."

"Alright, alright, Casanova," Harvey pushed in, eager to end the discussion and drown the discomfort he felt in the case that they were working. "After the case is over."

Mike smiled that hollow smile and nodded.

* * *

Harvey tapped the end of his pen on the table as they waited for the defendants to arrive. Mike was to his left, better dressed than usual. He went over the details of the case in his head but not to a substantial degree. One of his strengths was relying, partly, on his gut. Another was picking up on how the other guy across from him reacted to what he said. And sometimes the _presentation_ of the evidence was more important than the evidence itself.

"Donna said she liked my tie."

Harvey stopped tapping. It was easy to talk to Mike when he wasn't looking directly at him.

"Did she say, 'I _like_ your tie' or 'I _like_ your tie'?"

"It was the first one, I think...wait, what's the difference?"

"They more you're around her, the more you'll start to to tell," Harvey said as he stood. The defendants had finally showed up, the lawyer holding open the door for his client.

"Do you like my tie?" Mike hastily whispered under his breath as he rose, too close, alongside Harvey. Harvey glanced down at the dark blue tie, feeling Mike's shoulder touch his.

The lawyer across the table greeted Harvey coarsely, breaking Harvey out of his his momentary shock. He recovered and met the two standing across from him with an even look.

"The gang's all here," Harvey mocked. "Which is surprising, considering how hard you fought against submitting to this in court."

"My client's arm was twisted behind his back, Harvey. The choice might as well have been made for him."

Harvey shrugged and beckoned them to sit. As they all took their seats, Harvey continued, amused, "Unless his masochistic tendencies were set aflame, there was no need for that, especially if his closet is empty of skeletons."

"I have nothing to hide, Specter," the lawyer's client replied, looking as self-assured by the prospect of winning as Harvey was.

"We'll see." Harvey slid the folder towards him. The other lawyer put a hand over it, keeping it from his client, and scowled.

"Not this again. Harvey, how many times are you going to pull a folder out from your hat like a goddamn sideshow magician and think you can win a case like that? Bill? We can go. You don't have to deal with this."

"Go ahead," Harvey urged, mouth lax. "Open it up. There isn't a sexy bunny girl in there, that's for sure."

Bill met his lawyer's eyes and then laughed disparagingly. Ignoring his lawyer's protests, he opened up the folder himself, stared at it, and then incredulously threw it back across the table at Harvey. It flopped open, no documents contained within.

"It's _empty_ ," he stated, as though Harvey were stupid. 

"Funny how things can just disappear like that—isn't it, Mike?"

"People lose track of things all the time," Mike agreed. Harvey was further encouraged by Mike being quick on the uptake.

Harvey cocked his head. "Human error; happens a lot. Happens in a lot of big firms like yours."

"You better be getting to some sort of semblance of a point, Harvey," the other lawyer scathingly interjected. "Wasting my client's time wasn't part of the bargain."

"We appreciate you giving us access to all of the records we had requested. And you wanna know something? We didn't find so much as a punctuation mark out of place."

"It's true—I read through everything. Well, no, actually there was one double comma on the second page of memo two-hundred and sixty sent out to the board of partners," Mike put in helpfully.

"It's how I operate," Bill replied, eying Mike. "You mean to tell me Pearson Hardman doesn't hold itself up to the same kind of standards? Is that what you want from me? Tips?"

Harvey was unmoved by the man's derision. "Scrubbing one place so hard...must've been a real bad stain there before." 

"Smelled a little like bleach, Harvey."

"Did it Mike?" Harvey only had eyes for Bill.

" _And_? What exactly is it that you've think I've tried to hide?" Bill shot back, despite his lawyer's quiet urging to keep from talking.

Harvey shifted in his seat. He knew plenty of guys like this. Even feeling the sting of Harvey getting close to the answer, his pride would keep him from heeding common sense. The word "lose" was not in the man's vocabulary.

"Well, the former associate who filed the lawsuit seemed to think it was something pretty big. In fact, they said finding it was the reason they were fired."

"And what a cowardly thing to do—slugging punches at me as an anonymous plaintiff. I hope they choke on the fallout after all of this is over."

Bill's lawyer pinched the bridge of his nose.

"See but the thing is, there's no way you'd be dumb enough to fire an employee right after they saw something they shouldn't have, and then try to bury the evidence. That's about under a decade in prison, substantial fines, and God only knows what would become of your firm." 

"What are you saying, that your client is, what, lying?" the other lawyer questioned.

"I'm saying that our client was bribed to lie by the firm. There was no cover-up—at least, not at the level that they were purporting. If we had pursued any further, you would have certainly won. And then you would have been within your right to ask that those records be sealed, keeping anyone else from accessing them like we had. Why would you want to do this? I can only imagine how potentially...freeing it might be."

Both the lawyer and Bill's faces had paled significantly. It was the lawyer who first spoke, stammering out something unintelligible before finally addressing his client, "Bill, get up. We're leaving."

"The way I see it, you could believe me or not. Now, that's a gamble. I may or may not have enough evidence to back up my claims. But even if didn't, I would find it, you can count on that. I'll let my case ratios speak for me."

Harvey then leaned forward and murmured under his breath, "And I can tell you that I've never been in the red, Bill. Tell the man what he would win if he picks the wrong door, Mike."

"An all expense paid trip to jail, along with several perjury sentences."

"Ouch. Those some pretty high stakes. Still wanna take that chance?"

"This is ridiculous, I'm going to have to speak privately with my client now Harvey. And you're brutish bludgeoning has gone way over the line this time—"

"Shut up," Bill spat, features stiff as though etched in stone. His lawyer started at the next words. "Settle."

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever amount you want, Specter."

The lawyer looked between the three of them helplessly.

* * *

Harvey experienced a heavy wallop of déjà vu as he and Mike walked side by side to his office—how many times had they done this now? Mike kept up with him with little effort and Harvey felt a lick grief when he recalled their first, botched dinner plans. He had kept his promise once Mike was well enough and they had gone to several different restaurants as a result. But the outings did little to change what had happened.

"Sometimes the gun isn't loaded," Mike repeated Harvey's past teaching abruptly and Harvey glanced at him uneasily. They way he had said it seemed to hold some other meaning. 

"That's right," Harvey replied softly.

Once they arrived at Donna's desk Mike greeted her and then bade farewell to the both of them.

While walking backwards, Mike finger-gunned in Harvey's direction. "So this Saturday night is okay?" 

Harvey looked at Mike quizzically and then recalled their earilier conversation. He nodded stiffly. Mike shot him a grin and then went on his way.

Harvey watched him go, chest tight. He wanted to call Mike back to him, to say things that would probably come out a jumbled mess. Christ, when had he gone so goddamn soft?

"Don't, Harvey." He looked down at Donna, whose eyes were hard. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Too late," Harvey tried to respond abrasively but instead it came out weak, almost like a question. The way he said it had triggered some hidden pain in Donna that made her eyebrows furrow. She lifted her hand, almost as if to rest it over the hand that he had on the wall surrounding her desk.

"Harvey..." she began and then drew back her hand. "I know it's...hard for you. You need to remember that he isn't—"

"—The same. I know," Harvey finished. He let his hand hang limply at his side. "I know."

* * *

"I've got alcohol and I've got movies." Mike held up two paper bags as he spoke.

There Mike was on a Saturday night, standing on Harvey's doorstep, tie loose. Harvey wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to the sight.

"What's with the suit?" Harvey questioned as Mike crossed the threshold without formal invitation.

"Louis needed me to come in to do some work—he even said 'please'," Mike called out behind him. He set the bags on the island in Harvey's kitchen. "He's a lot more civil now, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," Harvey replied curtly while closing the door. "Louis has always been a pain in my side, I try to stay away from things and people that do that."

He hovered near the stove, watching Mike rifle through the bags. There was something about the sight of Mike in his penthouse that made him feel deeply privileged. They were completely alone. There would be no interruptions, no prying eyes. He could look at Mike without worrying about others seeing him look.

Would Mike eventually open up to him and allow him climb the high walls he had drawn up around himself? If he gave Mike more rope, would Mike reciprocate? Harvey understood there were complex reasons behind Mike's decision to withdraw so far into himself. But the sacrifice was too high; he didn't know what Mike was thinking, couldn't anticipate what he would do anymore. And apparently, no one else could either. Donna herself had even expressed feeling uneasy around Mike. This had apparently extended to the other associates in the bull pen, and even Rachel—who had been avoiding all but necessary encounters with Mike.

If Mike was shutting out the people at work, at home, then there was a high possibility that he was doing the same thing in counseling. Harvey was savvy enough to temper the thought. It would be a mistake to think that he knew at all how to help Mike or to correctly determine how much progress he had made.

"Here." Punctuated by the bottle cap popping.

Harvey accepted the opened bottle Mike handed him and raised a brow. "Beer. Really?"

Mike extended his bottle for a toast. "Don't worry, it's none of that colored water crap. Craft beer. Cheers!"

Harvey clinked the ends of the bottles together and mirrored Mike's swig. He rolled the taste around in his mouth before swallowing and exhaled.

"Tastes like shit, Mike."

Mike smacked his lips and examined the bottle. He pursed his lips while shrugging. "Weell it's...yeah, it's pretty shit. So, _Top Gun_?"

Harvey took another sip of the shit beer and said nothing. He kept his guard up even though he knew Mike would notice.

He watched Mike head over to his television with the paper bag and watched him slip the disk into the player. He eventually took a seat on his couch, feeling like the shirt and slacks he was wearing were paper thin. When Mike took fell into the seat next him, weight dipping the cushions, the sensation was only amplified. Their knees bumped together and Harvey felt his skin tingle.

"You can choose the next one," Mike said. He pressed the start button on the remote and took another sip of beer. "Mm, shit that's really bad."

Harvey didn't have a chance to agree or disagree and felt uninspired to do either. He only briefly glanced at Mike's face, the other man's attention now fully focused on the screen.

When the movie finished, Mike announced that he was going to bathroom and Harvey smirked when he heard him stop to dump his beer in the kitchen sink.

Harvey pursued the selections, spread out across the glass coffee table, while Mike was gone. They were all Harvey's favorites, all Mike's favorites—they _were_ Mike's. Harvey ran a finger along the worn spine of the case and took in the stain, discoloring the paper jacket under the plastic. He opened it and gently rotated the disk inside.

Some time passed and just as Harvey was going to get up to look for Mike, a cold draft made gooseflesh rise on his bare arms. He looked up to see that Mike was on the balcony, elbows on the railing, looking out at the brightly lit city. He rose to his feet, knees creaking.

Harvey quietly approached Mike from behind, afraid he might startle him.

"Let me guess, you went with... _Batman and Robin_!" Mike exclaimed, letting Harvey know that he was aware of his presence.

" _Godfather._ " Mike turned around to face Harvey and smiled. The feeling of loss hit Harvey like a freight truck, the knowledge that Mike had been hurt so badly, that he had been forced to deal with such a traumatizing event for no fucking reason at all. Curiosity had him take Mike in after their first meeting, something so self-satisfying had led them to this godforsaken place.

"Mike. You know, I'm—" Harvey swallowed hard. He curled his hands into fists to hide how bad they shook.

"You're what, Harvey?"

"I'm sorry. About all those things I said to you that night—I didn't mean any of them. And I'm sorry about what happened to you."

Mike turned his head to the side a little, watching Harvey closely, pinning him to the spot. "You don't have to apologize for any of that."

"But I—" Need to? Harvey wondered, unsure of where he was going with any of this. He doubted hearing Mike mechanically accept his clumsy "sorrys" would make him feel any better. He wasn't sure he wanted to feel better; it didn't seem right for him to ever feel better about it, not now and not in the future.

"What do you want me to say?" Mike had pushed off from the railing and stood directly in front of Harvey, his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to say that I hate you? That I wish I had never met you? Even if it isn't true? I can do that, if you think that'd be good for you."

Harvey inhaled sharply, sidling his response.

"Harvey. This is a great view," Mike clamped a hand on Harvey's shoulder, giving it a shake. "Relax."

They returned to the living room and Harvey locked the balcony doors to keep the draft out.

Harvey felt like he was struggling to tread water as he fumbled with the disk and the remote. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. When he had finally completed his task, he turned back to the couch to find Mike staring, not at the screen, but directly at him.

"I know how you feel about me," Mike said without breaking eye-contact. He had leaned back into the couch, posture nothing short of inviting. "Even though you never said; I know how you feel about me."

"Mike." Harvey was drowning now but Mike wouldn't relent.

"You don't have to keep holding back."

Harvey might have felt insulted by Mike's implication, if it were not for the way Mike was looking at him in that moment, or the way Mike looked on his couch. He approached Mike slowly, as though hypnotized. He stopped short, knees bumping with Mike's, and then leaned down to kiss him.

It was short. Mike let it happen, turned his head and opened his mouth. But Harvey only touched his lips, drawing back quickly, his heart hammering against his chest.

"You don't know what you're saying," Harvey quietly said. His were eyes trained on Mike's collar bones, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

Harvey jumped when Mike's hand came up to cup the side of his neck and urged him down. Mike leaned up to him to return the kiss, mouthing at Harvey's trembling lips and fluttering warm breath across Harvey's cheek. He bumped his forehead against Harvey's chin, bowing his head.

"It's fine Harvey." Came Mike's voice from under him, soft. He gave Harvey a little shake, palm still resting against Harvey's pulse. "S'fine. It's going to be okay."

Harvey's hitched back a breath. His back muscles were strained and his knees threatened to buckle under his weight.

"Mike."

"Tell me what you want. What do you want me to do?"

Harvey's nostrils flared when Mike lifted his head back up to smile up at him like it was taking all of his strength. It was all wrong that the words coming out from Mike's mouth were driving him crazy with need. What did he want from Mike? He was sweating now, lower-lip trembling, recalling the smooth touch of Mike's lips. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch Mike, press his fingers into Mike's flesh. There were Mike's striking blue eyes, there was the slender curve of his neck, the faint rise and fall of his chest. It was all so close—Mike was so close.

What did he really want from Mike?

"I want to—" Harvey began, voice low, harsh and halting. "Can I—"

"What?" Mike's dead, searching eyes and his unfathomable intentions were lost on Harvey's in his overwhelmed state. "Tell me. Tell me."

"Can I just—Can I just _hold_ you?" Harvey hissed out. The effort it took was extreme. It was not in his nature to beg. His raised guard was crumbling, prior objections lost. There was only Mike before him now, even if he was only a stranger that looked like Mike—and there was a sick part of him that considered that this was enough. Donna and Jessica's warnings were so faint, so insignificant in light of what was taking place now.

He still felt like he was dreaming when Mike led him to his bedroom and kicked off his shoes. He kept his clothes on as he settled back into bed and Harvey sidled up next to him. Mike turned to face him, lying on his side.

"It's okay, go ahead."

Harvey hesitated before lifting his hand to Mike's face. His breath caught when Mike fluttered his eyes closed, allowing Harvey to run his knuckles down the side of his face. The skin there was soft up until Mike's sparse stubble.

"You need to shave." Harvey reprimanded, voice breaking. The corner of Mike's mouth twitched.

Harvey pressed closer, nestling into Mike, and continued to touch Mike's face. He traced over Mike's nose, the fading scar over the bridge, the length of his brow, the shell of his ear. He followed every line and slope until he no longer recognized them being apart of a whole, blurring them together in his endless repetition, until Mike had relaxed and his breath had grown steady and soft.

Harvey shifted closer wrapping his arms around Mike, gentle, holding him close, rocking him. He pressed his face into the crook of Mike's neck. It was almost enough to just hold him, to feel the familiar warmth and life of a breathing body pressed up against his.

He pulled back to stare into Mike’s sleeping visage, finally— _finally_ finding Mike there in his oblivious state. Harvey’s fingers ghosted over Mike's lips to keep himself from kissing them despite so desperately wanting to.

“It should have been me,” Harvey whispered, tears dripping without prompting like something had broken inside him. "It should have been me.”

Harvey pressed their foreheads together, rubbing his cheek against Mike's and touching their noses together. How could have let Mike go that night? He had had the strength to do it then but, now, he could barely stand the thought. It terrified him, the thought that Mike might slip out of his arms and be lost to him again.

He knew Mike would never return his feelings.

And even if he could, Harvey knew it wouldn't be the same Mike. If he pressed further, he would be taking advantage of Mike's pliancy; the pliancy of the distant and cold stranger that had taken Mike's place. It would not be the same. Harvey was painfully well aware this fact now, of the selfishness that had been fueling his actions, of how he had purposefully blinded himself.

Harvey quietly grieved for Mike until he slid into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

When Harvey awoke, the room was unusually cold. He looked around blearily, palming the sheets beside him, finding Mike gone. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and found that Mike's shoes were gone. Had he left in the middle of the night?

Harvey glanced at his digital clock and saw it was two in the morning. He rubbed his face and neck, pausing at the spot where Mike's hand had touched him. He closed his eyes for a minute, feeling his pulse.

Feeling out of sorts and wide-awake, Harvey eventually got up and headed to the kitchen for something to drink.

It was even colder when he padded into the dimly lit living room. He rubbed his arms and frowned at the open balcony doors. He was sure everything had been locked before he had followed Mike to the bedroom. The television was set on the main menu of the movie, muted, looping it over and over again.

“Mike?” he ventured out into the quiet room.

Hearing no answer and seeing no sign of Mike, Harvey grabbed a glass and poured himself some water. He drank it and poured himself some more and then rested the glass on the counter, leaning on it as he hunched over the sink for a minute. Out of the corner eye he saw a piece of paper left next to the case of beer. Harvey picked it up and read it.

On the paper was a short message printed in neat, familiar handwriting. After reading it several times, Harvey found himself incapable of understanding what was so clearly written there.

He snapped his head up, lips parting. A torrent of noise rushed by in his ears, knocking the breath out of him. He stumbled to the balcony.

He threw himself against the railing, grabbing it, suddenly stopping, suddenly understanding. He touched the tie, his tie, wrapped around the railing with shaking hands, slipping against it, slipping his hands down as far as he could without toppling over the edge to touch the face he had memorized—so cold now, chilled by the wind; a vacant look.

The curtains fluttered outward as the evening breeze lifted them. 

Harvey fell to his knees, screaming.

Outside, New York was alive with sound.


End file.
